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THE BLACK DOG, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 































































. 
































































































# 


Mary and Cupid. 




THE BLACK DOG 


aui> jSDt^cr ^tortcgs. 

\ 



A. G. PLYMPTON, 

ii 7 

AUTHOR OF “DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHY,” “ROBINS RECRUIT,” 
“RAGS AND VELVET GOWNS,” “little SISTER OF 
WILIFRBD,” “BETTY, A BUTTERFLY,” 

“ PENELOPE PRIG,” “ DOROTHY 
AND ANTON.” 


EllustratctJ fog tfje &utf)or. 



; jul i a i aafi 

// o /J ° $ 

BOSTON: ' " 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1896. 


-f'Z.'l 



Copyright , 1896, 

By A. G. Plympton. 


SEntbersttg Stress: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


Of the following stories “ The Black Dog ” 
and “The Tupper Boys” have appeared in the 
Wide-Awake , formerly published by the Lothrop 
Publishing Company; “The River-End Morey’s 
Rab ” in the St. Nicholas , and “ The Stolen 
Wand” in the Outlook; and all are here re- 
printed with the consent of the publishers. 





CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The Black Dog n 

The Tupper Boys 39 

Rose Violet’s Garden 63 

Hilary’s Gift 85 

The Stolen Wand 117 

The Little Prisoner of the Wood .... 145 

Hector 175 

The River-End Morey’s Rab 205 






























































' 


* 








THE BLACK DOG. 




THE BLACK DOG. 


M ARY, my heroine, awoke in a very 
bad humor on the morning of her 
twelfth birthday. She had a headache, and 
a strangely torpid feeling made every task 
hateful ; but, as she did not complain of 
these sensations, the opinion was that Mary 
was unaccountably cross. To be sure every- 
thing was at sixes and sevens in the family, 
but no more so on this than on any other 
morning. 

The Cadwalladers lived on a small farm 
in Silverstream Village. The father was a 
sea-captain and was generally away from 
home, and the mother was in delicate health. 
It was for this reason that the task of bring- 
ing up her younger brothers and sisters fell 


12 


TIIE BLACK DOG. 


upon Mary, who conscientiously performed 
it to the best of her ability. 

Mrs. Cadwallader’s nerves were in such 
a state of excitability that the least noise 
was unbearable, and the crying of a child 
threw her into the greatest agitation. You 
can imagine how the young Cadwalladers 
took advantage of this, and how the fear of 
an explosion interfered with Mary’s disci- 
pline. The truth is, they were daily becom- 
ing more unmanageable, and snapped their 
fingers in defiance at Mary’s rule, which, 
considering her age, is not after all very 
much to be wondered at. 

The little eldest daughter tried to be 
gentle and patient with her charges, 
knowing this was her poor mother’s 
wish, but sometimes she longed to shake 
them. 

Such being her life and without prospect 
of its improvement, it was really no wonder 
that Mary was out of sorts. 


THE BLACK DOG. 


13 


On the morning our story begins, Mary 
was waiting for the children to get up, when 
the disagreeable task of dressing them must 
be performed. 

As she worked by the window darning 
John Jackson’s socks, she watched Black 
Cupid in the yard below, and found herself 
wishing that she were as careless and happy 
as he. 

Black Cupid was in truth a very bad little 
dog. Not such a little dog, either, for, hav- 
ing nothing on earth to do but to grow, he 
had already arrived at his full stature ; but 
the first adjective must stand as it is written. 
In his early puppyhaod he had been pre- 
sented to the children with the direction to 
keep him on meal and milk, to which diet 
no meat should ever be added. This rule 
Jerry the farm man had tried to enforce ; 
but Black Cupid did not live near a hennery 
for nothing, and the twenty-eighth chicken 
had that morning disappeared from it, and 


14 


THE BLACK DOG. 


served as a second course to the regulation 
dish of meal and milk. 

Poor little pup ! Well, he did n’t mind 



Black Cupid in disgrace. 


the whipping very much, but being tied to 
the carriage-house door was quite another 
affair. Dismally he whined to Jerry to re- 
lease him, but in a hopeless sort of way, too, 
as if he knew of what stern stuff Jerry’s 


THE BLACK DOG. 


15 


heart was made. Finally he lay down with 
a flop and a sigh, and then, after a moment’s 
earnest reflection, began to gnaw the rope 
attached to his collar. 

Mary was too much in sympathy with his 
desire to get free to give warning to Jerry, 
and presently Black Cupid was capering 
down the lane. Mary was just about to 
withdraw her head from the window when 
he suddenly paused, and after a moment’s 
apparent deliberation, ran back to the door 
and again gnawed the rope, this time quite 
up by the door handle, so that it could 
no longer be used as an instrument of 
punishment. 

“ If that was n’t cunning of him 1 ” said 
Mary. 

Black Cupid turned his wicked brown eyes 
up to the window in a manner that seemed 
to say, “ Gnaw off your rope, Mary, my dear, 
and see, for once, how jolly it is to be free.” 

But now Mary leaned her dizzy head upon 


16 


THE BLACK DOG. 


the window frame and became quite oblivi- 
ous to all things but the images of her own 
confused mind. 

The voices of the children arose louder 
and louder, and the whole troop flocked in 
to be dressed. There were John Jackson, 
Bertie, Helen, and little Fred, — four mis- 
chievous elves who, when Mary got up, 
scampered away on their little bare feet and 
fled shrieking through the house, to the in- 
valid’s distress and the consternation of Mary. 

When at last they were captured and 
stood jumping up and down, saucily jeering 
at her, a sudden wicked impulse leaped into 
her heart, and then and there she gave each 
child a sound slap. 

The children were so stunned by this 
unusual proceeding as to make no effort to 
escape, but their cries pierced the roof. 
Added to these was a wail of “ Mary ! 
Mary ! Mary ! ” from the invalid’s chamber; 
but it did not stay Mary’s hand. 


THE BLACK DOG. 


17 


The deed being done, she turned upon the 
howling group with the unfeeling words : 
“ Now you may go to Hackney Barney for 
all I care,” and fled from the house. 

In the orchard she whistled for Black 
Cupid, who came at once in answer to her 
call, and leaped about her and licked her 
hands in his joy at companionship. 

“ He has altogether forgotten his mis- 
deeds and -is as gay as a lark. It ? s a great 
thing to be a dog,” she thought. “ For this 
day I mean to enjoy myself, and have no 
more conscience than he has.” 

The girl and dog bounded down the hill 
together, Mary with her arms thrown out 
and crying, “ How happy I am ! How happy 
I am ! ” 

At the foot of the hill was the river which 
coiled around the fertile farms of Silver- 
stream Village. The changing seasons gave 
its banks a varied beauty, but Mary thought 

them loveliest just now, when they wore the 
2 


18 


THE BLACK DOG. 


tender tints of spring, and the apple orchards 
along its course were in blossom. There was 
a boat moored under a maple-tree, in which 
the Cadwallader children sometimes went out 



The Girl and Dog bounded down the Hill together. 


for a row, but never without the company of 
Jerry, this being their father’s order. 

But now Mary untied it, nodded to Black 
Cupid, and the two jumped in. The little 
girl took the oars, and the dog sat in the 
stern of the boat. 


THE BLACK DOG. 


19 


The voice of Hannah, housekeeper and 
inaid-of-all-work in this singular household, 
was wafted to them from the top of the hill. 

“ Miss Mary, Miss Mary, you know you 
are not allowed to go out by yourself in the 
boat. Come back and see to the children.' ” 

“ I have n’t a care in the world,” mur- 
mured Mary in reply, as, helped by a strong 
current, the boat shot gaily down the 
stream ; “and no conscience either.” 

As they proceeded, the river seemed to 
grow more and more beautiful. Sometimes 
it was broad and full and flowing, and 
sometimes narrow and sedgy where the oars 
caught in a tangle of grasses. They shot 
through the arch of the pretty stone bridge 
as skilfully as if Jerry himself had handled 
the oars, and with a push or two against 
• the spiles of the railroad trestle, that danger 
also was passed. 

Beyond the trestle was the great pine 
grove that Mary loved. There was a natu- 


20 


THE BLACK DOG. 


ral landing right by a giant pine with a 
board nailed to it, on which was printed 
“ No Trespassing.” Here the girl without 
a conscience disembarked. Unfortunately, 
she had forgotten to take a rope, and there 
was no way of fastening the boat. 

Mary looked at Black Cupid, and now, 
there being perfect sympathy between them, 
she understood what he meant by turning 
his head indifferently aside 'and slowly shut- 
ting his eyes. So they left the boat just as 
it was, and looking back from the top of 
the bank and seeing that the current of the 
river was fast working it away from the 
land, Mary merely said : — 

“ Poof ! Let it go. I am tired of rowing.” 

The grove seemed like Arcadia that lovely 
spring morning. The wind was laden with 
the balm of the spicy pines, and the sun- • 
shine danced on the river where its gleam 
could be caught between the leafage. It 
played at hide and seek around the dark 


THE BLACK DOG. 


21 


trunks of the trees as merrily as Mary and 
Black Cupid themselves. Such a romp as 
they had, Mary Cadwallader never had had 
before in all her troublous life. 

When worn out at last, Black Cupid flung 
himself down on the pine needles, Mary 
found a warm sunny spot for herself where 
she could see the soft blue sky through the 
dusky branches of the pines that were 
swinging so lazily in the wind ; and there 
she fell asleep. 

But although the pines sang unceasingly 
their soft lullaby, in a few moments the little 
girl awoke. For a moment she wondered 
how she came to be lying there so far from 
home, but suddenly the events of the day 
flashed into her mind. 

“ Why, what a wicked girl I ’ve been ! ” 
she said aloud, and she noticed that her 
voice was so hoarse that the words were 
hardly intelligible. Mary wondered if she 
had caught cold in coming off without her 


22 


THE BLACK DOG. 


hat, and spying her handkerchief on the 
ground not far off, thought she would use 
that as a head-covering. On reaching for- 
ward to pick it up, what was her astonish- 
ment to find she could not perform this 
simple act. 

A glance at her hand told her why ; the 
fingers and thumb had all grown together in 
her sleep, and as she sat, spell-bound, staring 
at the strange sight, she found it was fast 
being covered by long black hairs, until it 
completely resembled a dog’s paw. In try- 
ing to call Black Cupid she discovered her 
voice was now nothing but a bark. 

Instantly she realized the fact that she 
was being transformed into a dog. She had 
wickedly tried to shake off the responsi- 
bilities of a human being, and to enjoy the 
careless life of a puppy $ and this was the 
punishment. 

The only attribute of Mary Cadwallader 
that she was allowed to retain was her con- 


THE BLACK DOG. 


23 


science, which, having been entirely discarded 
during the last hours of her human life, now 
that she had assumed a dog’s shape, strangely 
enough awoke and pierced her with its cruel 
stings. For each offence of which she had 
been guilty that day, it caused her such 
throes that she was obliged to give vent to 
her feelings, in a series of distressed yaps. 
The sound awoke Black Cupid who ran up 
with great interest to learn the trouble. 

But when Mary, by means of a new and 
surprising power, had informed him of her 
misfortune, he remarked as follows : — 

“ That ’s a good deal to swallow, — even 
for a dog. I never heard of a girl being 
changed into a puppy.” 

“I don’t suppose there was ever a girl 
before who wished to part with her con- 
science,” said Mary, meekly. 

“ If such a change really has taken place, 
your condition is greatly improved. I pro- 
pose that we start for home, and once there, 


24 


THE BLACK DOG. 


I promise you a bit of spring chicken for 
your dinner.” And this was all the conso- 
lation Black Cupid could offer. 

As they trotted off toward the Cadwalla- 
der homestead, Mary’s heart was filled with 
a thousand fears. Suppose anything had 
happened to those dear children while she 
had been off duty ! And her mother, — had 
she been thrown into one of her fainting fits 
by the cries of the little ones, and was she 
still suffering ? Mary felt sure of one thing, 
— that they would all forgive her when 
they saw how terrible was her punishment. 
In truth, she was prepared for anything 
except what was about to happen. 

When the two dogs reached home they 
went immediately to the kitchen. Here 
they found the children safe and sound, 
hanging about Aunt Dillie who was stirring 
up gingerbread for tea. 

The sight of Aunt Dillie was a great sur- 
prise to Mary, who supposed her to be at 


THE BLACK DOG. 


25 


lier own home at Pilchertown ; but the good 
aunt was a favorite with the Cadwalladers, 
and Mary, forgetting about her misfortune, 
ran up to her crying : — 

“You dear good Auntie! I’m so glad 
you have come.” 

“ Goodness me ! ” said Aunt Dillie, with 
hardly a glance at poor Mary. “ So you ’ve 
set up a dog, have you, children ? What ’s 
its name ? ” 

“It’s Black Cupid,” answered John 
Jackson. 

“ No ; there is Black Cupid at the door,” 
cried Bertie. 

“ Why, they are both Black Cupid ? ” 
shouted Helen. 

“ One of them is a strange dog, and I shall 
drive it off, but I ’ll be blessed if I can 
tell which is the strange dog and which is 
ours,” and Jerry, who had come in with the 
milking pail, set it down on the kitchen 
floor, and regarded both animals critically. 


26 


THE BLACK DOG. 


Poor Mary ! to be driven from her home 
as a strange dog. 

“ Oh, listen to me ! ” she cried. “ I ’m 
Mary, your own Mary. Forgive me for the 
wicked things I ’ve done, and don’t drive 
me away.” 

“ The cretur has got an awful feelin’ voice 
and sech mournful eyes,” said Hannah. “ I 
’low that this one is the strange dog, Jerry.” 

“ No, it is n’t ; this is Black Cupid, I know 
it is,” John Jackson insisted. 

Mary turned away from them. Could n’t 
they see who she was? She went up to 
Freddy, — her baby boy whom she had 
loved so. She rested her chin on his little 
fat knee, and looked with speaking eyes 
into his face, until the little boy patted her 
head lisping : — 

“ I fink dis ittle dog is like my Mawy. 
Don’t dwive it away.” 

“ Mercy on us, what queer fancies children 
do have! ” cried Aunt Dillie. Then she and 


THE BLACK DOG. 


27 


the little ones went off upstairs, and the two 
dogs were left to Jerry, who, after scratching 
his head in great perplexity, finally declared 
that as he could n’t tell one from the other, 



DlS ITTLE DOG IS LIKE MY Ma\VY. 


he should lock them both up in the barn for 
the night. 

Notwithstanding all this discouragement, 
Mary did not give up the hope of making 
herself known. She would go as dogs will, 
from one to another in the family circle, and 


28 


THE BLACK DOG. 


with eager eyes and little whining cries try 
to tell what was in her mind. The thought 
that could she once get up stairs to her 
mother’s room, she at least would know her 
child, saved her from despair. 

All the next day and the following one, 
she haunted the house in the hope that 
Hannah, in some unguarded moment, would 
leave the door to the dining-room open ; 
but it was not till the third day that such 
an event occurred, and Mary, with palpitat- 
ing heart, bounded up the stairs and into 
the well-known chamber. There on the 
lounge lay the dear form of her mother as 
she had so often seen it, — her little white 
hands crossed over her waist, and her long 
lashes brushing her cheek. She was asleep. 
Mary moved nearer and nearer, and her 
mouth being just on a level with the sweet 
face, she lapped it gently for a caress. 

The screams of Mrs. Cadwallader brought 
the whole family to her room. “ An awful 


THE BLACK DOG. 


29 


creature is in here, and has been trying to 
bite me,” she cried hysterically. “ It ’s 
under the table now.” 

“ Oh, mother, mother, mother ! ” the 
black dog tried to say. “ Have you, too, 
forgotten Mary?” 

But Mrs. Cadwallader’s screams broke out 
afresh at the sound of her voice, and Mary 
was captured and carried to the barn. 

“ Now what am I to do with you, you 
varmint?” was Jerry’s reception. “Wal, 
Captain Cadwallader will soon be here and 
he can do what he pleases with you.” 

So her father was coming, — her father 
whose pet she was, and whom she loved 
better than any one else in the wide world. 
He would know her. Her father was com- 
ing and all would be right. 

From this time she kept unremitting 
watch upon the gate. But only the baker 
or the tin-peddler was to be seen, or perhaps 
a tramp with a shambling step and a cloudy 


30 


THE BLACK DOG. 


brow. Her father walked with a step that 
was firm and free, and his eyes were as clear 
as the summer sky. 

At last her watch was at an end, for one 
day the Captain came. 

“ Down, sir, down ! ” he cried to the 
strange dog that met him at the foot of the 
lane and leaped about him in such a frantic 
fashion. “ Down, sir, down ! ” he cried in 
his cheery voice, for he had caught a glimpse 
of his children spilling out of the house-door, 
and tumbling over each other in their efforts 
to be the first to greet him. 

“ Oh, will he never tire of the prattle of 
John Jackson and Bertie and Helen and 
little Fred ? Has he not a word for his 
eldest born ? ” In vain she told him the sad 
story of her misfortune and begged for his 
love and pity. In vain she implored him to 
remember his lost Mary. No, he would 
not understand, and the strange dog slunk 
away. 


TI1E BLACK DOG. 


31 


Then followed days of misery. Some- 
times of an evening as they sat together on 
the porch, when the children were being put 
to bed, and only the voices of the bull-frogs 
in the river broke the stillness, it seemed to 
Mary that her father understood her; and 
as she nestled close to his side on the bench 
he would put his arm around her in the old 
familiar way. 

But when, a little later, Aunt Dillie would 
come out for a moment on the porch, he 
would say : — 

“ Dillie, this dog of the children’s does seem 
half-human,” then she would go off sadly to 
the barn to whine and cry till morning. It 
was this habit that brought about the final 
catastrophe. For the strange dog was to be 
sent away. 

“ Nights enough we have been kept awake 
by your barking,” cried Jerry, exultantly. 
“ Your time is short.” 

And sure enough, one day a boy came for 


32 


THE BLACK DOG. 


her. With his own hand her father tied a 
rope around her neck, giving the other end 
to the boy, her brothers and sisters looking 
smilingly on. 

“ Oh, listen to me,” cried the poor black 
dog. “ You are giving away your own 
child. I am Mary ! I am Mary ! ” but still 
nobody understood. 

“ She knows she is going away and she is 
sorwy,” remarked little Freddy, pensively. 

“ I am Mary ! I . am Mary ! ” protested 
the black dog. 

“ You had better take her off now,” her 
father said to the boy; “this barking dis- 
turbs Mrs. Cadwallader.” 

The boy jerked the rope and whistled, but 
the black dog, planting her four feet firmly 
on the ground, refused to move. She was 
whining piteously and trembling all over. 

“ Come, doggie, good little doggie ! Come 
doggie ! ” so the boy pleaded, while Captain 
Cadwallader picked up a stone. 


THE BLACK DOG. 


33 


Mary followed the movement with her sad 
dog eyes. Would he fling it at her, — at his 
own first born ? Whiz ! it came through 
the air for answer ; but Mary did not stir. 
Another stone followed and another. John 
Jackson, Bertie, Helen, and even little 
Freddy were each hurling them at her with 
all the strength of their little arms. Alas ! 
before the last one reached her the black 
dog was dead. 

And is this really the end of the poor 
black dog, you ask. It is, but the end of 
the story is not quite yet. 

One morning in June there was joy among 
the Cadwalladers, for Mary had returned. 
For dreadful days and nights she had been 
moaning in a wild delirium imagining what 
horrors none could guess. No soothing 
words would convince her that they did not 
mean to drive her away, and nothing dis- 
turbed her so much as the barking of Black 
Cupid. They had found her on the morn- 


34 


THE BLACK DOG. 


ing of her twelfth birthday with the socks 
of John Jackson clasped in her feverish 
little hand, and her head resting on the 
window-seat. From that time to this she 
had known nothing of what took place 
around her, but on this morning when joy 
shone in radiance upon the Cadwallader 
family, she had opened her eyes with the 
light of consciousness shining in them, and 
with a smile had fallen into a natural 
sleep. 

Capable Aunt Dillie had come to Silver- 
stream Village the moment she had heard of 
the trouble and sickness there ; and now it 
was decided that she should remain perma- 
nently and take up the duties that had 
proved too heavy for poor little Mary. She 
was at home in a sick room ; but when 
Captain Cadwallader arrived he was consti- 
tuted chief nurse, for it was found that 
nothing quieted Mary so much as to have 
his arm around her. 


THE BLACK DOG. 


35 


After the fever left her, Mary did not at 
once recover. She was very weak and sat 
up only a short time each day; but she 
liked to have the children about her, and 
she often called Freddy and asked him if he 
could tell who she was. 

When he answered, as he invariably did : 

“Ess; you are my Mawy,” she always 
seemed quite satisfied and generally fell 
calmly asleep. 

Sometimes she asked for Black Cupid, 
but his frantic attempts to express his de- 
light at seeing her made her cry, and the 
doctor discountenanced his visits. 

It was August before she was downstairs 
again, a pale shadow of herself, and so full 
of nervous fancies that her father, who be- 
lieved there was no tonic to be compared 
with a sea voyage, declared that when his 
ship should again set sail, Mary must be his 
passenger. This plan received the cordial 
support of the doctor. 


36 


THE BLACK DOG. 


So it happened that one day in Septem- 
ber, The Dancing Polly set sail in a fresh 
breeze with flying colors, and the Captain’s 
pretty daughter on board. 

The good salt breeze soon blew the cob- 
webs from Mary’s brain, and the roses to 
her cheeks. Her only duty was to swing in 
her hammock on deck, and enjoy life on the 
beautiful sea ; a pleasure that was hers by 
right of past duties faithfully performed. 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 

A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR. 


















THE TUPPER BOYS. 


A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR. 

T HERE were three of them and as unlike 
as boys can possibly be. In the first 
place there was Horace Greeley, and I do 
believe the queerest child that ever breathed. 
Such an excitable, peppery chap, with a 
talent for speech-making and an unbounded 
interest in politics. He read the papers, as 
regularly as his father, and he had his views 
about the affairs of the country. In the 
presidential election of 1856 when he was 
hardly eight years old he delivered many a 
speech in favor of his candidate Fremont; 
and on the day of his defeat and Buchanan’s 
election he was found crying behind the fence. 

Greeley said he was going to be a lawyer. 
He used to attend court which was held 


40 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


twice a year in the country court-house, and 
gave early evidence of a taste for argument. 
Nothing could be said in the Tupper family 
undisputed by Master Greeley. In spite of 
his tender heart and generous disposition, he 
was disagreeable ; and when he flew into a 
passion, which happened very often, he was 
simply “horrid.” 

Horace Greeley was twelve, and his brother 
Theodore a year older. There was a per- 
fect mania in this family for nicknames, and 
Theodore’s nickname was “Lazy Lawrence,” 
or just “L. L.” for short. Perhaps you 
have never read the story of “ Lazy Law- 
rence,” but ask your mother and she will 
tell you that “ Lazy Lawrence ” was a youth 
whose laziness was the cause of numberless 
misfortunes. He could not have been any 
lazier than Theodore ; but there was this 
difference between them, — that Theodore’s 
laziness never seemed to lead to any mis- 
fortune at all, at least to himself. You 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


41 


never saw any boy slip along as easily as he 
did. No matter what discomforts fell to the 
lot of the family, L. L. in some unaccount- 
able manner escaped them. He shirked the 
work but shared in all the family fun and 
merry-making, for he was just as selfish as 
he was lazy. But there was a redeeming 
virtue in L. L. — he was always pleasant. 
Greeley, who was twice as lovable, wasn’t 
half so popular, and the moral of this is — 
but no, I am not going to write sentences 
for you to skip. 

The third son was named James, and they 
called him “ Toots ; v but don’t ask why, 
for nobody knows. Toots was able to turn 
in his toes and then bend his knees down 
till they touched the floor, without falling 
over. He could also move his scalp and 
wag his ears, and these accomplishments 
made him very popular. For the rest, he 
was a mischievous lad, with a talent for 
breaking the best dishes, and was perhaps 
the dirtiest boy in Berry town. 


42 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


One morning Greeley was sawing wood, 
and Ann Sarah and Bumps, the two girls, 
were looking on. Lazy Lawrence had long 
since vanished, knowing there was work on 
hand for that day, and had taken Toots 
with him. I have n’t mentioned the girls 
before, for girls were considered of secondary 
importance in the Tupper family. They 
could n’t vote, as Greeley said, but in their 
proper sphere they did very well. In the 
busy season, however, they were expected to 
come out of their sphere, and lend a hand 
out-of-doors, where they weeded, or dropped 
corn, or “ raked up,” with their brothers. 
They were seated on the wood-pile this 
morning, watching Greeley, who, as I said 
before, was sawing wood. 

“ Now,” said he, laying a log on the saw- 
horse, “ this is an old dimycrat ” — the scorn- 
ful way in which Greeley pronounced this 
word is utterly inimitable. “It’s old Bu- 
chanan himself, and I am going to saw his 
head off.” 


TIIE TUPPER BOYS. 


43 


Just as Buchanan's head fell with a dread- 
ful thump to the ground, L. L. and Toots 
came tearing into the woodshed in a whirl- 
wind of excitement. 

“ Have you heard the news ? ” cried L. L. 
“ War ’s broken out ! Fort Sumter has been 
taken by the South, and the Government 
has called fortroops.” 

“ My goodness gracious me ! ” cried Gree- 
ley, flinging down his saw. “ If there is to 
be a war I shall enlist.” 

“ So will I,” cried everybody, girls loudest 
of all. 

“ I ’m General James Tupper off for the 
war,” squealed Toots who was apt to be silly 
at times, strutting up and down, brandishing 
a shingle. 

The children all hurried with the news to 
the kitchen where their mother and grand- 
mother were at work. 

“ And everybody is getting red, white, and 
blue ribbons for their button-holes,” supple- 


44 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


merited Toots, “ to show they are for the 
Union. We want some.” 

Money was n’t plenty in the Tupper family, 
but patriotism was, and a twenty-five cent 
piece was at once devoted to the cause. 
Then the children hurried out into the street. 

There was only one street in Berrytown, 
a village which was placed on the top of a 
hill. The first building one reached was the 
jail, which gave a wicked air to the place 
only partially neutralized by the severe-look- 
ing church beyond. Then passing two or 
three dwelling-houses one came to the court- 
house, beyond which there were more houses, 
— the tavern, several shops, and the school- 
house, away at the other end. Except 
on Court week it was the dullest of lit- 
tle villages, lying in the cool shade of its 
rows of elms; but now it was the scene of 
unwonted excitement. Groups of men were 
discovered in the stores and on the tavern- 
steps. The minister was standing bare- 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


45 


headed in front of his house with Judge 
Payne, both talking and gesticulating in the 
wildest manner. The Stars and Stripes were 
flapping madly in the breeze on the old flag- 
staff, while scores of people were waiting in 
Miss Briggs’s little shop for a chance to 
invest in red, white, and blue ribbons. 
Among these were the Tupper children. 

There was no place in the Union more 
loyal than Berrytown. By May, Hubert 
Payne who had been educated at West Point 
had raised a company, and hardly half a 
dozen grown and hearty men remained in 
the village. They did not wait to be drafted, 
but flew to the rescue of their imperilled 
country. Samuel Tupper, the father of our 
boys, was one of the first to enlist. 

“ I don’t think you ought to go,” said his 
brother John, a moderate man. “ You have 
a wife and five children. If either is to go 
it should be I.” 

“ Either ! ” cried sturdy Samuel, “ who 


46 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


talks of either ? It should be both, John ! ” 
and both went. It is plain to be seen how 
Greeley came by his hot, generous, enthusi- 
astic nature. 

But, before they went, there was many an 
inspiring scene in Deacon Howe’s field, 
where Captain Payne drilled his volunteers 
before the admiring eyes of their wives and 
relations, while their young sons cheered 
them from their various perches on the stone 
wall. 

Horace Greeley had tried to enlist ; but 
what could Captain Payne do with that 
delicate-faced twelve-year-old ? He was told 
to wait till he was older, and his heart was 
hot indeed. He chopped Captain Payne’s 
head off many a time in revenge in the 
woodshed, and insisted that he was a traitor 
to the cause. 

At last came a sad but glorious day, when 
the “ boys in blue ” marched out from the 
peaceful shadow of their native elms down 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


47 


the hill by the road which led straight to the 
roar and revelry of war. 

But, before he left, Samuel Tupper gath- 
ered his flock together and spoke to them as 
a man will when he thinks it is perhaps for 
the last time. 

“ You are all too young to go with me to 
the war,” he said to his sons, “ but it is be- 
cause I can leave your mother and sisters in 
your care that I can go myself ; and I will 
fight for all four of us. Be brave and tender 
and loyal to your mother and you will learn 
to be good soldiers.” And then — and then 
he kissed the pale face of his wife and little 
daughters, and marched away amid the 
drums beating and banners flying and the 
bayonets flashing in the sun. 

With the company went the excitement 
and bustle in which the children had de- 
lighted, and the days were dull indeed. The 
women had no heart for merrymaking, and 
the customary picnics and berry-parties were 


48 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


sad affairs. The chief excitement was the 
arrival of the mail twice a day, when the 
people all came out to hear the war-news. 

If there was little sport, there was plenty 
of work for the boys, who had double duty 
to perform while the men were away. The 
T upper boys had promised to take care of 
the garden, and there was the stock to look 
after. It was Toots’s duty to drive the cows 
to pasture, to pick the vegetables for dinner, 
to help water the flower-beds, and to supply 
kindling wood for the kitchen fire ; and with 
considerable prompting from his mother 
Toots did fairly well. 

For two days L. L. worked like a beaver ; 
he weeded, he hoed and chopped wood till 
he learned for the first time what work 
really meant ; and then he rebelled outright ; 
and every one said — that is in his own 
family — it was no more than they expected. 

Greeley, however, stood by his promise 
like a man, and did his share and L. L.’s too. 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


49 


He got up early and labored with the spade 
and the hoe, and in the middle of the day 
sat down with his books ; and this lasted a 
long, long time. 

The little girls learned to knit stockings 
and scrape lint and make bandages. At last 
they divided this sort of work. The knitting 
fell to Bumps s- share, and Ann Sarah, who 
had a real genius for doctoring, attended to 
the lint and the bandages. The little girl 
longed herself to bind these on the poor 
maimed soldiers, and had no doubt she 
would have as much success with their 
wounds as with Bumps’s numberless bruises. 

If it were not for this unlucky sister’s fre- 
quent mishaps, Ann Sarah’s light would have 
been hidden under a bushel; for the boys 
were strong and sickness rare in the family. 
Beside the socks, Bumps made mittens and 
nightcaps ; and while she and Ann Sarah 
were thus employed, the boys would tell 
the blood-thirsty way they would treat the 

4 


50 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


rebel army. They would make short work 
of the war, they thought, did they stand in 
General Scott’s shoes. 

By and by, came news of the defeat 
of Bull’s Run, which spread like wildfire 
throughout the North, leaving consternation 
and dismay in its wake. The government, 
uncertain whether the Southern states would 
really secede, had ordered only about seventy- 
five thousand troops, when three hundred 
thousand were needed ; and now there came 
another call for troops. 

Poor little Berrytown had sent forth all 
her sons at the first call, but the excitement 
there was prodigious. As for Greeley, he 
was as nearly crazy as a sane child could 
well be. 

“Men like Captain Payne,” he said, in a 
stump speech delivered in the court-house 
yard to a crowd composed of the minister, 
doctor, a few weak old men, and a num- 
ber of boys and girls, “ are to blame for our 




\ 


An Arm strong enough to handle a Musket. 






THE TUPPER BOYS. 


51 


defeats and disgraces. Men who in the pride 
of a West Point .education reject the earnest 
support of the young and inexperienced but 
patriotic volunteer from the rural districts ! ” 
and here Greeley slapped his chest and 
scowled, while a volley of cheers from the 
amused crowd drowned his voice. 

To tell the truth, Greeley had been read- 
ing the history of the Children’s Crusade, 
and his brain was on fire. He would organize 
a children’s crusade. He would form a 
a company of boys who should offer their 
services to the Governor, who was a good 
and loyal man — unlike Captain Payne — 
and he would not repulse them. 

As the parson and the other men turned 
away Greeley broke forth again to the chil- 
dren. “ An arm strong enough to handle a 
musket,” he cried, holding out his own 
slender limb with a nervous little brown 
hand trembling at the end of it, “ has no 
right to use the spade and the hoe while our 


52 


THE TUPPEK BOYS. 


country is in danger. Legs, sirs, which can 
run as these can,’’ pointing to sundry stout 
pairs among the crowd, “ should be march- 
ing to the front where our boys are being 
driven back by the superior force of the 
enemy. Are we Berry town boys weak and 
puny in a game of base-ball ? A thousand 
times no ! Let us show our pluck on the 
field of battle. The President has need of 
every one of you boys who are hiding behind 
your mothers’ skirts and whining that you 
are too young to go to the war. The coun- 
try has need of every one of you boys, and 
girls too ! ” cried Greeley, now fairly beside 
himself with excitement. 

“ What for ?” piped out a girlish voice. 

“ Nurses,” was the prompt reply. “ Girls, 
will you let your brothers who have fought, 
bled, and died for you on the field of battle 
be left to suffer there with no lily hand to 
soothe the pillow of pain ? ” 

“ Poh ! they don’t have any pillows,” said 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


53 


’ Mandy Blake. But no one noticed this 
impertinent remark, for all eyes were riveted 
on Ann Sarah who was bobbing excitedly up 
and down, crying, “ I ’ll go ! ” 

“ Three cheers for Ann Sarah ! ’’ screamed 
Greeley, swinging his cap. “ May her name 
be recorded in the list of noble women who 
shared the hardships and privations of war.” 

“ I should want to have a prettier name 
than Ann Sarah, if it was going to be re- 
corded for posterity,” said ’Mandy. 

“I’ll go,” said Bumps; and several other 
girls who had caught the infection, declared 
they would go too. 

“ Three cheers for the girls ! ” began Gree- 
ley again. “ But can we let the weaker sex 
go forth, and we like cowards remain at 
home ? No ! we are not cowards. Hurrah ! 
Three cheers for the First Regiment of Boy 
Volunteers! Rally round the flag, boys, 
rally ! ” 

The mention of the First Regiment of Boy 


54 


TIIE TUPPER BOYS. 


Volunteers caught the popular fancy. The 
cheers and hurrahs were so deafening, that, 
had not the street been deserted at that 
time, the elder people would have got wind 
of Greeley’s project and nipped it. As it 
was, the company was formed. Greeley 
raised a standard around which flocked both 
girls and hoys. The drums beat and away 
they marched, determined to sacrifice them- 
selves for their beloved country. 

Several of the villagers saw them march 
down the hill, but the boys had formed too 
many companies in their play for this to 
occasion remark. 

The day was hot and dusty, but the march 
to Primville was soon accomplished. Here 
Greeley wished to stop and stir up a like 
enthusiasm among the youth of that place, 
but the other boys urged that the Berry- 
town folks would soon be in pursuit, and 
they had better take to the woods and strike 
out for the capital of the State. 


TIIE TUPPER BOYS. 


55 


By noon they were as hungry as wolves, 
and all looked to Greeley for supplies. Poor 
Greeley had never once thought of this im- 
portant matter till his own hunger brought 
the embarrassing question to his mind. For 
his own part, he thought he could subsist on 
the berries they found by the way ; but the 
others clamored for more substantial food. 
L. L. in particular seemed unable to endure 
the “ privations of war,” and complained as 
bitterly as the smallest children in the ranks. 
He said that soldiers on the march had a 
right to pillage from any garden or orchard 
which they passed ; but after one unsuccess- 
ful attempt, having been chased from the 
premises by a fierce dog, L. L., — well, he 
“ deserted,” as Greeley expressed it. “ He 
never did have any pluck,” Ann Sarah said 
sadly, “ but I did n’t think he would turn 
out so badly as this.” 

Poor Bumps passed a terrible day. She 
was stung by a bee, stepped in a bed of 


56 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


thistles, fell over a stone wall, and Ann 
Sarah had no liniments with which to heal 
her wounds. By night the ranks were so 
thinned by desertion you would never have 
recognized in the miserable band of strag- 
glers the brave “ First Regiment of Boy 
Volunteers.” That night they slept under 
an old shed, and on the following morning, 
tired, lame, hungry, but still brave, they re- 
newed their march. 

The day really came when a portion, at 
least, of these dashing volunteers entered 
the capital. It was a very small portion, I 
confess, — a boy and a girl. In short, 
Greeley and Ann Sarah. They were lame, 
battered, dirty, ragged, and disreputable 
looking much more like w r orn-out veterans 
than new recruits. Greeley had lost his hat, 
and one of Ann Sarah’s shoes was miles 
away in a bog. But at all events here they 
were ! Where Bumps was, they had no 
idea. She had stopped to rest with a num- 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


57 


ber of others, and had never caught up with 
the main army. Toots was last seen going 



into a farm-house to ask for a piece of bread 
and butter. One by one, they had all 
dropped off, until only these two were left 
to stand triumphant before the Governor. 


58 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


How he must have laughed to himself — 
that grave man immersed in affairs of state 
— when these two little people presented 
themselves to join his soldiers and nurses. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked 
with a queer smile. 

“ Berrytown, sir,” replied Ann Sarah, 
quite unabashed by the dignity pertaining 
to office. 

“ You are both minors, I see. Are your 
parents aware that you are offering your 
services to the Government?” 

“ N-no,” faltered Ann Sarah. 

But Greeley was about to speak. The 
floodgates of his eloquence burst, and in 
eager words he poured out the whole story. 

When it was finished the Governor arose 
and shook hands with both children. “ It 
would be well for our country if it were full 
of just such staunch men and women as you 
will make,” he said, and the little Tuppers’ 
hearts gave a great bound as they thought 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


59 


at last they were to find a place in the ranks 
of the faithful. But alas ! he went on to 
say : “ But, besides brave men and women, 
we need brave girls and boys. The girls 
with their cheerful presence cannot be spared 
from their now saddened homes, and the 
boys must take the place of the men who 
have left the nr. Now I think you are some- 
what of a deserter, my fine fellow, and I am 
going to send you and your sister back 
to your post, where I hope you will re- 
main loyally till I call you out for active 
duty.” 

Greeley and Ann Sarah returned to Berry- 
town the following morning ; but, before 
that, they dined at the Governor’s own 
table, and kind people cared for them over 
night. 

Bumps and Toots had been picked up by 
the party which had started out in search of 
the fugitive children. Greeley returned to 
the cares of the little farm, a wiser, if not a 


60 


THE TUPPER BOYS. 


sadder boy, and the piles of lint and ban- 
dages prepared by Ann Sarah that following 
week could not have been equalled, I firmly 
believe, by those of any other girl in the 
Federal States. 


ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEN. 






ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEN. 



0 see Rose Violet’s garden with its 


JL carefully tended beds of dry, barren, 
sandy soil, and its few feeble products, one 
would never imagine the joy it yielded to 
its possessor. 

Rose Violet was a little girl somewhere 
in her early teens, whom fate, or poverty, 
compelled to work all the long summer days 
in a cotton factory, and who had a true pas- 
sion for floriculture. 

The pleasures of her garden were all anti- 
cipatory. Each spring she would lay out in 
seeds, all the money she had been able to 
save out of her wages (her pay, Rose Violet 
would have said) and each packet repre- 
sented some sacrifice of comfort that made 


64 rose violet’s garden. 

it all the more exasperating when they 
burnt in the ground, or for any reason re- 
fused to sprout. Four years of wholly 
unsuccessful gardening had not taught her 
what the worldly wise call sense, and she 
still ardently believed in her garden’s future 
and worked for it. 

If you ask why she could n’t have been 
satisfied to gather the daisies and buttercups 
that grew in the fields around the town, 
you cannot be answered any more than if 
you asked why one likes blue better than 
red, or peaches better than plums. There is 
no argument against a matter of taste, and 
all I know is that it was the heart’s desire 
of this poor little Rose Violet to make the 
bare patch of a backyard blossom like the 
rose. She wished to raise with her own 
hands the flowers that she loved. 

In this gentle ambition she found no sym- 
pathy. The factory girls, her comrades, 
whose taste was for cheap finery and “fun,” 


rose violet’s garden. 65 

thought her stupid to spend her money on 
plants and seeds. And her father cared no 
more for a flower than for a stick. She 
must have inherited this taste from her 
mother, who gave her the silly pretty name, 
and begged before she died that the child 
should always be called by the whole of it. 

Rose Violet was as delicate, dainty, and 
refined as if she had seen nothing but the 
gentle side of life. Her eyes were so soft, so 
trustful, and lovely, her skin so fine and fair, 
her voice so low and sweet, that one never 
could leave off wondering at the freak of 
fate that placed her in this coarse, rough 
workaday corner of the world. If she had 
been born in a higher rank in life, she might 
have expressed the poetry of her nature in 
some lovely art, but as it was she could only 
stammer it out in that unhopeful garden. 

Notwithstanding the unloveliness of her 
life, Rose Violet is not to be pitied, for her 

heart was an unfailing spring of hope, and 
5 


66 rose violet’s garden. 

she had a knack of turning the bitter of 
experience into sweet. 

Often at her work, while the machinery 
clacked and the air fairly reeked with oil 
and perspiration, she made music and fra- 
grance for herself humming the words, 
“ Roses and jonquils, marigolds, sweet-wil- 
liams and hearts-delights.” 

It was spring, and the garden was enter- 
ing the fifth year of its existence. It could 
look back to one season when a row of 
nasturtiums had actually blossomed in the 
unfeatured desert of bare ground. Another 
year, four square feet of that ungenerous 
soil was covered with some persevering 
picotee pinks, defiant of heat and drought. 
Once, little Jim Hooley who had been injured 
in the machinery had enjoyed a whole bunch 
of zinnias from Rose Violet’s garden, and 
pretty Delia King had worn a knot of them 
in her belt at a ball. 

Rose Violet had no ambition to take prizes 


rose violet’s garden. 67 

at flower shows. What she wished was to 
have., plenty of blossoms to give to people 
who perhaps not once in a year hold a flower 
in the hand. She wished a garden that 
would sometimes draw the children from the 
pollution of the streets, and furnish them 
innocent enjoyment. There was a certain 
delightful old garden on Spring Street that 
poor Rose Violet took as a model for her 
own ; but it pained her to see the little 
children looking so wistfully through the 
palings at the flowers within, and she prom- 
ised herself that in her garden they would 
be free to pick with their own little hands, 
any flower that grew there. 

This year, she had been guilty of unusual 
extravagance in the matter of bulbs and 
seeds, and for that reason, and also from the 
eternal hopefulness of her disposition, her 
expectation rose high. 

It was a chilly day in the last of April 
and Rose Violet was planting a packet of 


68 


ROSE VIOLETS GARDEN. 


Iceland poppies. She had a heavy cold and 
a bad cough. If, when she had come from 
her work there had been any one to take 
care of her, she would have been put to bed 
and not allowed to kneel on the cold ground 
breathing that pneumonia-dealing air. But 
Rose Violet had always taken care of herself, 
and she would never dream of such a thing 
as coddling a cold. 

After planting the poppies she sat down 
by the fire and made herself happy with 
a florist’s catalogue. The pamphlet was 
well thumbed and marked from beginning to 
end. She turned the leaves slowly, stopping 
every now and then at the picture of some 
plant or shrub blossoming with all the sur- 
prising and mendacious exuberance of a 
florist’s catalogue. Rose Violet had no idea 
of the guile there is in a florist’s catalogue. 
From these pictures she believed that she 
could learn just how her plants would look 
if her soil were rich and she did not have 


ROSE VIOLETS GARDEN. 


69 


to go a block and a half in a drought for 
water. 

This occupation was frequently interrupted 



She made herself Happy with a Florist’s Catalogue. 


by fits of coughing. She coughed so hard 
that the tears came to her eyes and her head 
swam, and when the coughing was over she 
lay back panting, as weak as a baby. 

When her father came home they had sup- 


70 hose violet’s garden. 

per, and then, as the custom was, Rose Violet 
was left alone until bedtime. The poor child 
made for herself that concoctions of vinegar 
and molasses known by the mysterious name 
of “ Stewed Quaker,” and trustfully took the 
whole of it in the belief that it would cure 
her cough, but she coughed all night and she 
coughed all the next morning more violently 
than ever. 

“ I should think you would cough your 
head off,” said her father in an aggrieved 
tone, as if he believed that Rose Violet 
coughed out of pure malice and obstinacy. 

“ Coughs are such complainin’ old things,” 
said patient little Rose Violet, “ there ’s no 
hiding ’em. ” 

That evening when any one inquired for 
Rose Violet, her father replied that she was 
better. He had noticed that instead of 
hovering as she had done over the fire, she 
opened all the windows, and that there was 
a bright color in her cheeks. 


rose violet’s garden. 71 

The next day was Sunday and the sun 
shone brightly. 

46 This warm weather will make things 
grow,” said Rose Violet hopefully to Mrs. 
Hooley, whose warm Irish heart was con- 
cerned for the child, and she had come 
round to the* Guiney’s cottage to find Rose 
Violet sitting on the doorstep trying to 
44 cool off.” 

44 You must be a bit feverish, darlin’,” she 
said, 44 for the weather do be a thrifle chilly 
yet. Sure I ’d git in the bed at wanst if I 
was you.” 

Only after much persuasion, however, did 
Rose Violet allow herself to be tucked under 
the blankets. Then Mrs. Hooley tried her 
remedies of mustard and boneset, and it 
was not till the disease was well settled on 
Rose Violet’s lungs that the doctor was sent 
for. He was a young man who had just 
come to the town, and had yet to learn the 
amazing ignorance of the poor in the care 
of the sick. 


72 ROSE violet’s GARDEN". 

Mrs. Hooley was chief nurse, but old 
Mother Sevenoaks took a turn now and 
then, and the factory girls came when they 
could, and once Rose Violet’s father conde- 
scended to stay the whole evening with her. 
They put little Rose Violet into half warm 
or scalding flaxseed jackets as was most con- 
venient, and the jackets grew cold and chilled 
her, or they dried and blistered her at their 
own sweet will. Sometimes she was given 
the right pills, and sometimes the wrong 
ones. Sometimes she took them herself or 
they were forgotten altogether, and why she 
did n’t die then and there nobody knows. 
Weak as it looked, there must have been as 
strong a vital principle in Rose Violet’s 
body as in her soul, for she pulled through, 
and after a while was as well as ever again, 
though that was nothing to boast of. 

Before that there were days of pain to be 
lived through when Mrs. Hooley and Mother 
Sevenoaks would shake their heads and 


ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEN. 


73 


groan, and the factory girls bring her all 
the ill news of the neighborhood, — of how 
prevalent pneumonia was that year, and 
how fatal it proved, and how it could n’t 
be possible that she would be out again 
for many a long day. Then her father 
would tell her how like her mother, as 
she lay dying in that same bed, she 
looked, and count up the expenses of her 
illness. 

Soft spring days now set in. The sun 
grew warmer and warmer, and the breeze 
that stole through the little window by Rose 
Violet’s bedside, was so summer-like that it 
stirred a thousand hopes. 

“ Did you notice,” she asked on one of 
these warm mornings, “ if anything has 
come up in the garden?” 

“ Lor, no, child,” replied Mother Seven- 
oaks who was on duty just then, “there ain’t 
a spear o’ nothin’, an’ never will be. Don’t 
you be settin’ your heart on greens.” Mother 


74 


ROSE VIOLETS GARDEN. 


Sevenoaks expressed her disapproval of the 
vegetable kingdom by this disrespectful term. 
“ They ’re terrible contrary anyhow, an’ you 
ain’t got nothin’ but a sandbank to grow ’em 
in. I ’d give right up on it now, if I was 
you, Rose Violet.” 

But for Rose Violet to do this was like 
giving up life altogether, so she turned 
over on the side least blistered by the 
poultices, and tried to view the matter 
hopefully. 

It grew warmer and warmer, the air was 
like June, and Rose Violet’s visitors brought 
her wonderful reports of the seasons prog- 
ress. Tulips and daffodils were already 
abloom in the enclosure by the library build- 
ing. Dandelions glimmered on the green of 
the lawns, and the shrubs and flowers in 
that garden in Spring Street were a delight 
to every one that passed by. But to the 
eager inquiries as to her own garden, she 
received only the most discouraging replies. 


HOSE VIOLET S GARDEN. 


75 


On the doctors next visit, he discovered 
that something was wrong with his patient. 
Her temperature had gone up like a rocket, 
and the fever ran high. It was plain that 
Rose Violet was fretting. With his sym- 
pathy and quick wit he soon had the little 
girl’s confidence, or there is no knowing 
into what a state she would have worked 
herself. 

“ Is that the garden ? ” he asked, jerking 
his head in the direction of the door that 
opened into the little plot where her trea- 
sures were set. 

“Yes,” answered Rose Violet, dolefully; 
“and folks say nothing will ever bloom 
in it.” 

“Won’t bloom in it? Nonsense, nonsense !” 
cried the doctor. “ Something is blooming 
in it now. Nice yellow flowers. I ’in sure 
I saw yellow flowers as I came in.” 

“Ob, can they be daffodils?” cried Rose 
Violet. “ I once had two bulbs, but that 


76 


ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEN. 


was three years ago, and they never came 
up at all.” 

“ Why, yes, daffodils to be sure,” said the 
doctor, resolving, as he noted her shining 
eyes and sweet smiling lips, that before she 
should see it again, some flowers should 
bloom in that ugly backyard. But unfor- 
tunately, in the hurry of his busy life, 
the kind impulse was forgotten. He at 
once enlightened Mrs. Hooley and Mother 
Sevenoaks as to one of the canons of 
good nursing, and both women promised 
obedience. 

“ Sure, doctor, you may depind on me for 
cheerfulness. Sure an’ a foine garden is 
already a-con struct in’ in the head o’ me. 
They do be a sight o’ things a-growin’ there 
all at wanst,” said the good Irish woman ; 
and Mother Sevenoaks added, 

“ I ’d never have thought that the little 
un ud be so silly as ter pine fur greens, — 
but we ’ll chirk her up now with a fine mess 
of ’em.” 


ROSE VIOLETS GARDEN. 


77 


The two women were as good as their 
word, and vied with each other in raising 
Rose Violet’s spirits. 

“Your rose bush do be a-growin'* foinely 
this year, choild,” said Mrs. Hooley one 
day. 

“ Are there any buds on it ? ” questioned 
Rose Violet, eagerly. 

“ Is it buds yer askin’ fur ? Holy Saints ! 
9 t is jist kivered intirely with buds, an’ 
a great display ’t will soon be makin’ of 
itself.” 

Rose Violet clasped her hands in ecstasy. 
“ Have the poppies come up ? ” 

“ An illigant patch of ’em, darlin’, and 
you may be aftlier askin’ herself (nodding and 
winking at Mother Sevenoaks, who was just 
coming in with a bowl of broth) if you don’t 
belave me.” 

“ Of course I believe you,” cried Rose 
Violet, turning her beautiful trustful eyes 
on Mrs. Hooley, “ but I do wish somebody 


78 ROSE violet’s garden. 

would bring me just a little sprig of some- 
thing to look at.” 

Not long after this request Rose Violet 
lay asleep with a daffodil in her little thin 
hand. She dreamed of a fair garden with 
beds of lovely fragrant flowers dancing in 
the soft south wind, to the music of the 
bees ; and her dreams, and her long cher- 
ished hopes and Mrs. Hooley’s stories all 
mingled together in her poor little brain, 
and made, so it seemed, one .beautiful real- 
ity. For how could she guess that the 
daffodil had been hooked by the means of an 
old umbrella handle out of the enclosure by 
the library building by kindhearted but law- 
scorning little Jim Hooley, and the days had 
seemed so long as she lay suffering she did 
not realize that not much more than a 
couple of weeks had passed since that chill 
April day on which she had planted the 
poppies. 

So, often in imagination she wandered 


ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEN. 


79 


out of the kitchen door into a land of pure 
delight, where roses grew galore, and white 
lilies, so fragrant and sweet, rose rank upon 
rank. Pinks grew in plenty, and clumps of 
good old-fashioned sweet-william and mari- 
golds and cliina asters bloomed simulta- 
neously, regardless of their proper season, 
while the ladies’ delights showed their dear 
little faces everywhere, even struggling out 
into the paths. 

After her lungs began to heal, Rose Violet 
mended rapidly. At length she was able 
to be up and dressed, and one morning Mrs. 
Hooley helped her into the kitchen, and left 
her there sitting alone. 

Carefully, slowly, Rose Violet rose to her 
feet, balancing herself as the child does who 
is learning to walk ; then, with her face 
shining with expectation and joy, she went 
to the door. She was to see it at last, — 
the beautiful garden. She lifted the latch, 
and stood there with puzzled eyes, looking 


80 


ROSE VIOLET’S GARDEX. 



upon the barren ugli- 
ness of the little en- 
closure. Bare earth 
everywhere except 
where, in spite of un- 
favorable conditions? 
a couple of violet 
plants had for three 
seasons spread their 
dark green leaves, 
and a corner where 
a cinnamon rose still 
dragged out a feeble 
existence. Where 
were the fragrant 
white lilies, the spicy 
pinks, and the mari- 
golds and china as- 
ters ? 

Rose Violet sank 
on the threshold, hid 
her face and cried 


eose violet’s gaeden. 81 

in the bitterness of her disappointment. 
How could they deceive her so ? 

Two little girls passed by, and one said to 
the other. 

“ There ’s Eose Violet’s garden. Ain’t it 
beautiful, though ? ” 

And the little mocking voice was like a 
sharp thorn to her. 

But, by and by, she wiped her eyes and 
stood up. She dragged herself to the spot 
where the violet leaves made a tiny patch of 
hope ; here she stooped and drawing her 
fingers through the leaves found one small 
flower, blue and sweet. How her eyes 
shone as she looked at it ! her face grew 
radiant with happiness. Had the garden 
bloomed like the garden of her dream she 
could have been no happier. 

When for the last time the doctor left 
Rose Violet that day, he wore in his button- 
hole the sole product of the little girl’s gar- 
den. He had found her still with the 
6 


82 rose violet’s garden. 

tear-stains on her white cheek, but looking 
at the flower as a mother might look upon 
her first-born. His heart ached over her 
disappointment and his own forgetfulness ; 
yet he knew that qualities and not posses- 
sions are the real sources of happiness, and 
Rose Violet was rich in hope and love and 
undying courage. 






HILARY’S GIFT 
































4 
















































- 





























































- 






























♦ 











- 


















HILARY’S GIFT. 



HE elder boy is remarkably clever,” 


said the tutor. “ He will make a 


scholar and gratify your ambition, but as for 
the little chap, — ” the tutor broke oif and 
began to laugh. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Langdon,” said 
the professor, rather stiffly, “ Am I to under- 
stand that my youngest grandson lacks 
ability ?” 

“ Oh ! no, no. 1 should n’t say that,” 
answered the tutor, “ but he is not of the 
genus — scholar.” 

“ Pray speak quite plainly,” urged the 
professor. “ I would rather know the worst 
at once. In fact I have feared he is rather 
deficient ; I noticed something odd about 
him the moment he came into the house.” 


86 


Hilary’s gift. 


The tutor smiled. 

“ Oh,” he said,“ you have always seen him 
in the house, haven’t you ? Well, Ernest is 
an infant Socrates, but Hilary is a true dis- 
ciple of Pan. A simple, joyous creature of 
nature. I admit that in the house he is a 
sad scapegrace ; but in his rightful place, 
under the broad sky, dancing over the green, 
he is a young satyr.” 

u And what is he on a piazza? ’’ giggled 
a boyish voice under the window by which 
Langdon stood. 

“ A despicable eavesdropper,” said the 
tutor, sternly, but the professor being deaf 
heard neither question nor answer. 

“ My son was very ambitious for these 
boys,” Professor Blagden now explained to 
the tutor, “ and for his sake even more than 
my own I wish to give them every advan- 
tage. It was for this reason that I sent for 
them when their mother died, thinking that 
under my personal supervision they would 


Hilary’s gift. 


87 


make better progress than at a boarding 
school, where otherwise they would have 
gone. At my age, and with my quiet habits, 
the introduction of two lads into the house 
is, I confess, a grievous trial. But the point 
to be gained is well worth a sacrifice of per- 
sonal comfort. ' After hearing your report of 
the lads, however, I have made up my mind 
to keep Ernest here and send Hilary to 
school. ,, 

“ I believe you will make a great mistake 
if you do this,” exclaimed Mr. Langdon, with 
great earnestness. “ Notwithstanding the 
dissimilarity of taste the boys are exceedingly 
fond of each other. I never saw anything 
sweeter than Hilary’s pride in, and affection 
for his brother. If he is separated from him 
his chief incentive to study will be taken 
away. Besides, you can’t tell how a boy of 
that age may develop. Hilary is very im- 
mature, and no one knows what latent capa- 
city he may have.” 


88 


Hilary’s gift. 


The tutor was one of the wise men who 
model their opinions in some firm but plastic 
material which while retaining its shape will 
yet admit of alterations as circumstances 
make desirable. The opinions of the profes- 
sor, on the other hand, were immediately 
cast in iron. They were usually so good that 
it was not desirable to change them, but, 
whether good or bad, they were like the 
facts of nature, useless to oppose. Seeing 
the hopelessness of any attempt to convert 
him to his own belief, Mr. Langdon could 
only hope that before the schools would 
begin in the autumn some circumstance 
would arise to reveal the winning loveliness 
of Hilary’s nature to his grandfather, and 
alter his determination to send him away. 

At the rebuke of his tutor the young 
eavesdropper slipped out from under the 
piazza roof on to a broad lawn edged with 
trees. At the farther end of it, by a stone 
bench, an older lad lay on the grass in the 


Hilary’s gift. 


89 


long cool shadow of some tall hemlock trees. 
His smooth, white face against this dusky 
back-ground was of a luminous white broken 
only by the heavily lashed eyelids drooping 
over the cheek. He was so absorbed in a 
book as to be unaware of Hilary’s approach, 
until a red rose fell upon the page. 

“ It ’s all right, I have found out,” said 
Hilary, who deceived himself with the frag- 
ment of the conversation he had overheard 
between his grandfather and Mr. Langdon. 
“ You are to have Latin and Greek and be- 
come a scholar, and I am to be a Satyr. Do 
you know what that is ? ” 

“ Oh, it ’s some kind of a freak,” answered 
the elder brother. “ I don’t know much about 
them, but Mr. Langdon will tell us.” 

“ They don’t study. I know that much, 
and that is all I want to know,” said Hilary, 
gleefully. 

“ How did you find this out ? ” asked 
Ernest. 


90 


HILARY S GIFT. 


“ I was under the window and listened.” 

“ Oh, Hilary, that was mean. Why did 
you do that?” 

“ To hear,” answered Hilary, innocently. 
“ It ’s a good thing to listen if you want to 
hear. I don’t know much, but I know 
that.” 

. He began to laugh and dance, not in the 
shadow where Ernest lay, but beyond in the 
broad sunshine. He seemed as much a part of 
the landscape as the butterfly fluttering over 
a flower-bed or a squirrel that was leaping 
among the branches of the hemlock trees. 
His skin was a ruddy brown, his eyes too 
were brown, but if you looked close into 
them they were full of color. His limbs 
were supple and strong, and he danced like 
a flower in the wind. 

u I wonder that they should let you off 
from study,” said Ernest, watching him, — 
It was impossible not to watch Hilary when 
he danced in this way from the joy of his 


Hilary’s gift. 


91 


heart. — “ What will you do when I go to col- 
lege? We shall be separated, and you know 
Hilary, we are never happy when apart.” 

“ Let us not think of it,” interrupted 
Hilary, hastily. He stood still for a moment 
looking piteously at his brother; then he 
tossed his brown locks, the brightness flashed 
over his face, and he said smiling. “ Come 
out here in the sunny place, Ernest. Why 
do you stay in the shade ? ” 

“ Because I can read better here. The 
sunshine on the white page dazzles the eyes 
so, and this book is so interesting I can’t 
leave it. It warms you up more than the 
sun when you hear about heroes.” 

“ What is it that you can read about that 
warms you up like the sun ? ” asked Hilary, 
curiously. 

“ Well, I ’m reading a famous speech made 
by a man whose name was Patrick Henry,” 
answered the elder brother. “ He was a 
true patriot, at the time of the Revolution. 


92 


Hilary’s gift. 


And he made this speech in the legislature 
of Virginia when every one was counselling 
submission to England and meekly bearing 
her tyranny, because she was a great deal 
stronger than we were. It was so eloquent 
and brave that it inspired every faint heart 
with courage. And Virginia at once armed 
herself for the war.” 

Here Ernest picked up the book and began 
to read the well-known lines. 

“ ‘ There is no retreat but in submission 
and slavery. Our chains are forged ; their 
clanking may be heard on the plains of 
Boston. The war is inevitable, and let it 
come. I repeat it, sir, — Let it come. 

“ ‘ It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. 
Gentlemen may cry peace, peace ; but there 
is no peace. The war is actually begun. 
The next gale that sweeps from the north 
will bring to our ears the clash of resound- 
ing arms. Our brethren are already in the 
field. Why stand we here idle ? What is 


Hilary’s gift. 


93 


it the gentlemen wish ? What would they 
have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet as 
to be purchased at the price of chains and 
slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God. I know 
not what course others may take, but as for 
me, give me liberty or give me death.’ 

“ Now is n’t that fine, Hilary ? Was n’t I 
right in saying it warms you like the sun ? ” 
“ Oh, not like the sun,” replied Hilary, 
holding his little brown face up to the sky. 
“ But what does that mean, Ernest ? — 4 Give 
me liberty or give me death.’ ” 

“It means that if he could not be free he 
would prefer to die.” 

“But what does that mean?" persisted 
Hilary, with the little pucker in his brow, 
which came there whenever he was puzzled, 
and which was so out of accord with his 
merry face that one longed to smooth it 
away. “ What does that mean ? ” 

“Well, it means — it means,” said Er- 
nest, determined to choose words suited to 


94 


Hilary’s gift. 


Hilary’s comprehension, “ that he did n't 
wish to live at all if he couldn’t have his 
own way.” 

“ Oh, ho ! ” cried Hilary, his brow clearing, 
and beginning to caper again on the green 
grass, “ then the heroes are not so different 
from us after all. Why ’t is exactly what I 
say to myself many a time, only not in such 
big words, — ‘ Give me liberty or give me 
death.’ ” 

At that moment a figure was seen cross- 
ing the lawn. 

“It’s Mr. Langdon,” said Ernest, drop- 
ping his book. 

The boys ran eagerly to the tutor and led 
him to the stone seat. 

“ We want you to tell us about satyrs,” 
they both cried. 

“The impudence of the boy!” exclaimed 
Mr. Langdon, pinching Hilary’s ear. “ One 
would think you would make yourself scarce 
after the shameful act you were caught in.” 


Hilary’s gift. 


95 


“ But I was n’t caught” said Hilary. 

“ True, you disclosed yourself. It does 
make a difference.” 

He drew the young scapegrace nearer him, 
wondering why it was that this youngest 
pupil, to whom he could teach nothing, had 
such a charm for him. 

“ Very well,” he said, “ to begin with, you 
must know that in the Greek mythology 
there was a hairy god called Pan.” 

“ Oh, yes,” interrupted Hilary, “ I remem- 
ber you said that I was a follower of 
Pan.” 

“ His father was Hermes, the god of 
eloquence, and his mother was a wood- 
nymph. Pan was born with little horns 
sprouting out of his forehead, with pointed 
ears, and a goat’s legs and hoofs, and he was 
so uncouth that his own mother deserted 
him. Hermes, however, wrapped his queer 
little son in a hare’s skin and carried him to 
Olympus, which was, as you know, the home 


96 


Hilary’s gift. 


of the gods, and where he amused the di- 
vinities by his droll antics. 

“ The Greeks embodied their impressions of 
the powers of nature within or without them 
in these deities. Minerva was the goddess 
of wisdom, Aphrodite of love, and Demeter 
personified our bountiful mother-earth with 
its life-giving power, and with all the myste- 
rious changes of the season. These myths, 
you must remember, were the creations of 
an imaginative gifted people in the child- 
hood of the world before science had ex= 
plained the forces of nature. 

“ Pan was the chief divinity of the forest, 
through which he liked to wander, resting 
in the noonday heat in cool grottos, and 
amusing himself with music. He typified 
the humble life of Arcadia with its flocks 
and orchards, its pines and leaping streams. 
He was usually surrounded by the wood- 
nymphs who liked to dance to the music of 
his reed pipes. Pan is the chief of the 


Hilary’s gift. 97 

satyrs who represent nature in her wildness, 
energy, and freshness.” 

Finding that the boys were interested Mr. 
Langdon talked on of the Greek myths until, 
the heat of the day being past, the hour 
arrived for the bicycle ride. As they spun 
over the smooth road leading into Boston, 
the idea occurred to the tutor of taking his 
pupils into the Art Museum, and now, while 
their interest in the subject was keen, show- 
ing them the gods and goddesses of the 
Greek sculptors. 

In this way the impression of the beauti- 
ful Greek legends was deepened. Gods, god- 
desses, nymphs, satyrs, and graces began to 
seem as familiar to the Blagden boys as 
their nearest neighbors. Ernest looked for- 
ward with much pleasure to the study of 
Greek, and composed- several sonnets to the 
Greek divinities, which his grandfather and 
Mr. Langdon regarded as promising youthful 
efforts. As for Hilary, though he listened 


98 


Hilary’s gift. 


to the stories with eager interest, they cer- 
tainly did not move him to any literary 
exercise. 

One lovely evening he sat by his chamber 
window gazing regretfully out over the 
long moonlit lawn. When called, he had 
come in very unwillingly, and now, instead 
of going to bed, sat wondering why people 
should wish to put a roof between them- 
selves and the sky on such a beautiful 
night. 

Ernest was sleeping soundly, but Hilary 
longed for the coolness and freshness of the 
dear old earth. He thought he would like 
to sleep under the sky, be wet by the dew, 
and fanned by the fragrant June night ; but 
this privilege, though he begged for it ear- 
nestly, was refused him, and his grandfather 
had called him odd in a tone that meant 
disapproval. 

At length he undressed himself and lay 
down beside Ernest, but immediately the 


Hilary’s gift. 


99 


temptation to steal out into tlie night was 
stronger than ever. 

He got up quietly, and dressing himself 
hastily crept out of the room. There was 
a little hall outside of Mrs. Gookin’s, the 
house-keeper’s room, with a window which 
by means of a trellis formed a way of es- 
cape from the house, In a moment Hilary 
stood on the ground, his heart beating with 
joy and expectation. He ran into the covert 
of trees that edged the lawn and looked out 
on the meadow, now a shimmering sea of 
moonlight. Beyond the meadow was a pine 
grove where Pan lived, having recently ar- 
rived from Arcadia, at least so it seemed to 
the excited imagination of Hilary. If he 
had brought a satyr or two for company it 
would not be surprising, and, Hilary ardently 
hoped, a few nymphs. 

Where Hilary entered it, the grove was 
intensely dark, for the trees here grew close 
together, and no opening permitted the 


100 


Hilary’s gift. 


moon to send a single ray into it; but Hilary 
was not afraid and ran through it with a 
great delight in the soft presence of the 
summer night. 

He seemed to himself a newly created 
being ; his very gait, as he cantered over the 
ground, was different from the usual long 
striding movement of a strong boy in run- 
ning. His senses were sharpened so that he 
heard sounds usually inaudible, or if heard, 
quite unaccountable, — the delicate motions of 
startled creatures peeping from nests on the 
branches of the pines, or creeping from their 
lodgings underground ; the voice of the 
summer wind, of echoes, and the falling of 
the evening dew. The night, he thought, 
yielded to him odors such as the day never 
brought. 

At its farther extremity the grove sloped 
to a broad and beautiful river. The trees 
here were not so thick set, and the moon- 
light slanted across broad spaces which 
swarmed with strange dancing figures. 


Hilary’s gift. 


101 


In the foremost of these, Hilary recog- 
nized the rough earth God, — Pan, bearing 
a shepherd’s crook and playing on his pipes. 
About him danced a troop of woodland 
nymphs, whose figures of irresistible grace 
contrasted with the grotesque forms of 
satyrs. At the sound of approaching foot- 
steps, the whole company turned as if to 
flee ; but with one look at Hilary as he 
came breathlessly out from the shadows into 
the lustrous moonlight, they bounded for- 
ward to meet him, holding out their hands 
and saying as if with one voice (in surpris- 
ingly good English), 

“ You are one of us. Come and join in 
our dance.” 

The nymphs crowned him with oak leaves, 
and they brought a fawn skin dappled with 
rich spots, which they tied jauntily with the 
hoofs over his right shoulder. Then Hilary 
gave his hand to the prettiest nymph and 
the dance began. 


102 


Hilary’s gift. 


Never before in all his frolicsome life had 
he leaped so high, laughed so loud, or sang 
sweeter. All night he played with the 
young satyrs, joining in their wild mischief, 
such as changing the eggs in the birds’ 
nests, flinging the pine-cones at the owls, 
or chasing each other through the winding 
aisles of the grove. 

At length the moon began to go down, 
and Hilary bethought himself that if he 
wished his escapade to remain a secret he 
must slip back at once before the dawn into 
his grandfather’s house. 

It now becomes necessary to bring one’s 
thoughts from nymphs and satyrs to so 
prosaic a personage as Mrs. Gookin, — the 
housekeeper. She was a good old soul, de- 
voted to Hilary, but not picturesque or 
pretty, having projecting gooseberry-colored 
eyes, pendulous cheeks, a loose hanging 
under lip and retreating chin. 

Mrs. Gookin had retired that night with 


Hilary’s gift. 


103 


her chronic fear of burglars stimulated into 
a fever by tales that had been told her of 
recent robberies. She had locked up the 
house with unusual care, having gone round 
twice to every door and window, — once to 
lock them and once to make sure that she 
had locked them. 

Unluckily for Hilary, he had let himself 
out just after Mrs. Gookin had made her 
first round, so of course, on her second round 
she found the window through which he 
had escaped, open. This excited her so, 
that she examined the windows again before 
going to bed. Even then she could not sleep 
comfortably, but magnified every little noise 
about the house into a sound ominous of 
burglars. 

When at length she really heard a stealthy 
step outside, she suddenly remembered hear- 
ing Hilary say that it would be an easy 
matter to enter the house by climbing over 
the trellis under the hall window. Her 


104 


niLARYS GIFT. 


heart beat to suffocation as she listened to 
the creaking of the trellis. The window she 
was sure was fastened ; would the burglar 
force an entrance or try elsewhere ? Pres- 
ently she heard him descend the trellis and 
creep away. 

Toward morning the same manoeuvre was 
repeated, but this time the termination was 
different. For with the darkness Mrs. 
Gookin’s extreme terror vanished, and she 
resolved that she must catch and punish the 
disturber of her night’s rest. Therefore, 
when Hilary’s head was on a level with the 
window sill, he suddenly found himself 
siezed by the hair, shaken like a bull, while 
a shrill voice screamed, “ I’ve got him ! I ’ve 
got him ! Help ! Murder ! Help ! ” 

Too excited to discover her mistake, Mrs. 
Gookin continued to scream until Mr. Lang;- 
don, the professor, and Ernest came flying 
to her relief, and poor little Hilary was 
pulled up through the window like a fish. 


Hilary’s gift. 


105 


He was now in this public way obliged 
to confess bow be had spent the night, and 
brave as well as he could bis grandfather’s 
displeasure. 

But what distressed Hilary more than any 
reproof was the fact that his account of 
bis adventure in the wood was utterly 
discredited. 

“ The poor little fellow has slept out in 
the wood and no wonder he has had queer 
dreams,” said Mrs. Gookin, thus voicing the 
popular belief. “ I ’ll give him a dose of 
quinine to prevent a cold, and put him to 
bed.” 

And notwithstanding Hilary’s protests 
this programme was immediately carried out. 
An indignity it is safe to say no Greek satyr 
was ever subjected to. 

At nine o’clock, however, Hilary got up 
and dressed, Mrs. Gookin being now in the 
liigh-tide of preparation for a distinguished 
guest, which had carried her far beyond the 
nursing of runaway boys. 


106 


Hilary’s gift. 


He went directly to the grove to look for 
some sign to prove, to himself at least the 
reality of the scene he recalled with so much 
distinctness. He hoped that he might find 
a fragment of an oak wreath, dropped in the 
flurry of the dance, or a flower that some 
nymph had flung to the bold pursuing satyrs, 
but he searched in vain for the slightest 
token of the presence of his merry com- 
panions. Even the smooth carpet of pine- 
needles showed no sign of the numberless 
nimble hoofs that had frisked over it, to 
say nothing of the dainty footsteps of the 
nymphs. 

Half in play, half conscious of his own 
folly, yet with a wilful half belief in the old 
legend, he brought stones and constructed a 
shrine as near as he might, like those to 
which the Arcadian shepherds brought their 
offerings of milk and honey. Of honey 
Hilary had none to offer, but he brought 
milk in an old tin dipper and placed it on 
the shrine. 


Hilary’s gift. 


107 


Perhaps after all it was only his poor 
dumb way of showing his love for those 
realities of which Pan had been the symbol, 
— for the beauty of the fresh green earth, 
for the dainty beautiful forms of the curling 
vine and foliage of trees, for this enchanting 
grove, — the play-ground of so much light 
and shade and exquisite color. 

Hilary went home and of his own will, for 
once, shut himself up within the four walls 
of his room. Here he took paper and pencil 
and tried to reproduce those pictures with 
which his memory or imagination (he did not 
trouble himself to decide wdiich) was stored. 
Hilary often drew the objects of nature that 
especially delighted him, but never before 
with such earnestness. 

Unsuspected by his friends and even by 
himself Hilary had the gift of the artist. 
With a few lines he could in some degree 
express the beauty that he saw in nature. 
Far as he was from being satisfied with his 


108 


Hilary’s gift. 


work Hilary could see that these drawings 
were the best he had ever made. It is true 
they were very crude, roughly drawn on 
coarse wrapping paper, but there was spirit 
and feeling in every line. Yet he was shy of 
showing them to his grandfather, though 
he had made them with that very purpose, 
for might he not say with truth that they 
were worth nothing and that he had better 
use his time in study ? 

Rolling them up he went back to the 
grove and tucked them away behind the 
stones of the shrine. 

It was late in the afternoon and the grove 
was lovelier than ever with the sun play- 
ing on the trunks of the trees as it sank 
low in the sky. It had nearly set before 
he started home. Suddenly he remembered 
that it was to be a great day for their house, 
for a famous man was to honor it with his 
presence. This Mr. de Vries was a celebrated 
Greek scholar, Mr. Langdon had told his 


Hilary’s gift. 


109 


pupils, and it would be a privilege for them 
to listen to his conversation. 

Hilary had crowned himself with oak 
leaves and came dancing over the lawn. 
His face was glowing in the last flickering 
blaze of the sun. His brown locks were a 
ruddy gold. 

But the professor looked w r ith keen dis- 
approval at the boy, so dishevelled, so rustic, 
so unworthy to meet their honored guest ; 
and reading his face Hilary stopped, uncer- 
tain whether to step up on to the piazza 
where the company sat, or to slink away. 

The guest, however, charmed with the 
sylvan air and utter unconsciousness of the 
little figure, beckoned him to his side and 
kept him there all the evening. 

The next morning' Mr. de Vries said he 
would join Mr. Langdon and the boys in a 
walk, and finally persuaded the professor to 
accompany them. 

The air was sparkling and fresh, carrying 


110 


Hilary’s gift. 


health and joyousness with it. The blood 
danced in one’s veins. Even the professor 
seemed to enjoy the unwonted exercise, and 
stopping now to rest, now to enjoy some bit 
of woodland or view of stream, the walk 
prolonged itself far into the day. 

The sun was high, when with more lag- 
ging footsteps they entered the pine-grove. 
Here Hilary, who had hitherto been fore- 
most, hung back. At first he said he would 
wait at the edge of the wood, but finally 
followed his companions, since he could 
not induce them to turn in some other* 
direction. 

Midway in the grove, overcome by drow- 
siness and the heat of the day, they flung 
themselves on the odorous fallen needles, 
and Mr. de Vries began to talk on the sub- 
ject that most kindled his eloquence, the 
ancient Greeks and the Greek mythology. 
Although they could not appreciate the depth 
and seriousness of his interpretations, Ernest - 


Hilary’s gift. 


Ill 


and Hilary enjoyed his delicate choice of lan- 
guage and the power of his word painting. 

“ These woods,” he said at length, “ are 
like a true Arcadian grove. One can almost 
hear the music of Pan’s reeds, and see the 
satyrs chasing the wood-nymphs among the 
trees. That pile of stones might be a shrine 
to Pan. Perhaps it is.” 

“ I have just been wondering what it is,” 
said Mr. Langdon, “ I don’t remember it here 
the last time I came.” 

“ I am going to see,” said Mr. de Yries 
rising, and followed by shamefaced Hilary, 
they all stood around the shrine, while 
Ernest, with his usual penetration, discov- 
ered the meaning of the stones. 

“ Hilary has been playing here and has 
built a shrine. That is what he wanted of 
the milk he begged of Mrs. Gookin. See 
here, it is full of bugs in an old dipper. He 
has talked of nothing but these wood-di- 
vinities ever since Mr. Langdon first told us 


112 


Hilary’s gift. 


about them, and I truly think he believes 
they haunt this grove and that he has seen 
them.” 

“Then it is more than mere play,” said 
Mr. de Yries, drawing Hilary into the circle. 
“Now we know why he came home gar- 
landed yesterday afternoon. He had been 
to a festival. It is the intensity of his con- 
ception that makes him feel that he has seen 
the myths. Such a power to vividly revive 
dead and gone things is the very marrow of 
the student of ancient Greece. I hope he 
will be interested in this fascinating study.” 

“ The boy never of his own will looks in 
a book,” said the professor, laying his hand 
on the shoulder of Ernest ; “ this is the 
scholar.” 

Hilary hoped they would now go away 
without having discovered the drawings, but 
nothing, it seemed, escaped Mr. de Vries’ 
sharp eyes, for suddenly he stooped down 
and drew the roll from between the stones. 


Hilary’s gift. 


113 


“ Oh,” said Hilary, “ they are nothing but 
drawings that I made to show my grand- 
father, but when they were done I was 
ashamed to show them to him after all, and 
I put them here.” 

Having Hilary’s shy consent, Mr. de Vries 
unrolled the paper. Mr. Langdon and Ernest 
stepped forward to look over his shoulder, 
but the professor stood aside with his eyes 
fixed on Hilary. Something in his timid 
tone and air had touched him. He realized 
how in his gratified pride he had given all 
his heart to Ernest, and had kept himself 
aloof from this youngest child of his dead 
son. 

“ Whoever examines those drawings,” 
said Mr. de Vries, “can see why the little 
lad does not love his books. Nature has 
enchanted him too much. See how he has 
drawn Pan, all hairy and rough, and blow- 
ing away on his shepherd’s pipe which is the 

delight of this charmingly composed circle 
8 


114 


Hilary’s gift. 


of nymphs dancing around him. Then see 
what an original pose the boy has given to 
this little satyr. One would say he had seen 
it with his own eyes.” 

“ Yes, yes, I did,” said Hilary, eagerly, 
“’twas just so he danced.” 

Having looked through all the sketches, 
Mr. de Vries, Ernest, and Langdon walked 
on. Once they looked back at the old man 
and the boy who were following far behind 
them. 

Hilary was hanging on his grandfather’s 
arm talking with earnestness, and the pro- 
fessor, still with the drawings in his hand, 
was looking with all a grandfather’s pride 
and love into the boy’s flushed and hand- 
some face. 



THE STOLEN WAND. 




















































































































THE STOLEN WAND. 


ESSAMINE lived with her two grand- 



mothers and an old yellow cat, and 


often complained of her life as being what 
she called — using a word of her own coin- 
ing — exceedingly Tmmdrumy . Her mother 
was a dressmaker, and her business forced 
her to be away from home all day and 
often quite late at night, so that in the 
social life of the family she could not be 
said to count. There was also a raw Irish 
girl (not always the same one, .though 
always of the same rawness) who was an 
important feature of the household, but not 
in the way of turning prose into poetry. 

The grandmothers were alike in nothing 
except in being old. Grandmother Fair- 


118 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


weather was a cheerful old body, interested 
in everything that went on, and not to be 
caught dozing in the chimney-corner. To 
be sure, on Sunday afternoons she generally 
took a little nap, from which she would 
wake up with a jerk, look about her in a 
guilty way, and then placidly remark, “ This 
is the blessed Sabbath/’ 

But one little nap once in seven days is 
hardly worth mentioning. She believed that 
the reason why Grandmother Grimkins slept 
so much was because she did not knit. For 
my part, I think a grandmother who does 
not knit is a failure. 

If you inquired of Grandmother Fair- 
weather concerning her health, she always 
answered brightly: “ Oh, I’m nicely, my 
dear, nicely,” but Grandmother Grimkins at 
such a question would shake her head and 
groan. 

Both grandmothers could tell interesting 
stories of their youth, but they were true 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


119 


stories, and not the sort Jessamine liked. 
She often told the Professor (the cat had 
been so named on account of his reflective 
expression), that the grandmothers’ stories 
were liumdrumy, and she wondered that he 
could listen to them. 

But the Professor, like the other members 
of the family, was prosaic and practical. 
He constantly exasperated Jessamine by the 
moderation of his ideas. 

Jessamine was a very discontented-looking 
girl, with a mop of red hair and a frown. 
She usually carried a book of fairy tales 
under her arm, and when things went wrong 
in the house, as, owing to the absence of its 
mistress, they frequently did, instead of 
trying to straighten them, she always sat 
down and wished she were a princess who 
lived in an enchanted castle. Jessamine had 
often been told that such beings as fairies 
have never had an actual existence, but she 
inclined to Bridget’s view of the matter, 


120 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


which was that they “ don’t be so prevalent 
now as they used.” 

It was an October evening, and there was 
a little fire built for the grandmothers, who 
sat each in her respective chair on either 
side of the hearth. The old yellow cat, 
looking almost black against the fire-glow, 
sat between them, winking his green eyes 
and purring in lazy satisfaction. When a 
dog is pleased, he seems to long for human 
speech to tell us of his joy, but a cat is a 
more self-sufficient creature. For a long 
time the Professor paid no attention what- 
ever to Jessamine, who was lying with her 
sleepy head on a cushion at Grandmother 
Fairweather’s feet, net even noticing the 
sound of dish-washing from the kitchen, 
where her mother was busy. Occasionally 
she reached out her hand to stroke the 
Professor ; but suddenly he turned his 
head and remarked — or so it seemed to 
Jessamine : — 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


121 


“ If happiness can be found anywhere, *t is 
by this peaceful domestic hearth.” 

“ I think this peaceful domestic hearth is 
the most humdrum place on earth,” an- 
swered Jessamine, quite as if addressing a 
human creature. 

“ If you had the wisdom of a cat, or even 
the talky-talky cleverness that passes for 
wisdom among your race, you would know 
that sort of life which you call humdrum is 
most favorable to profound meditation.” 

“ But I don’t want to meditate,” objected 
Jessamine. “ What I want is adventures . ” 

“Such as you read about in here,” said 
the Professor, tapping the book of fairy tales 
with his paw. “ Well, if you will follow me, 
I ’ll promise you an adventure, with a capital 
A, which will perhaps reconcile you to a 
humdrum life.” 

Getting up, he stretched himself, with his 
fore paws flat on the ground and his hind- 
quarters raised, and yawned tremendously. 


122 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


Then he shook himself and trotted out of 
the room. 

Jessamine cast a look at the grandmoth- 
ers. Grandmother Grimkins had been snor- 
ing violently for the last ten minutes, and 
for a wonder, although it was in the middle 
of the week, Grandmother Fairweather also 
was fast asleep ; so she crept cautiously after 
the Professor into the entry. 

“ There is nothing that so impresses me 
with the painful inferiority of mankind as 
the clumsiness of their movements,” he 
whispered as they hurried along the passage. 
“ One would think your joints were rusty 
hinges and your feet made of wood. Can’t 
you undulate along as I do, instead of jerk- 
ing yourself so ? ” 

“ No,” answered Jessamine, unfastening 
the door. “ I can’t undulate worth a cent. 
Come along and don’t bother.” 

It was a fine evening, bright with the 
light of the full moon. Unused to night 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


123 


excursions, Jessamine’s heart beat rather 
faster than usual, and when her conductor 
entered the wood that loomed up so darkly 
against the sky, and whose shadows were 
black and thick, she suddenly stopped short. 

“ My heart flutters so ! ” she expostulated 
to the Professor, who replied, shortly : — 

“ Well, go home and be humdrum, then, 
and your heart won’t flutter.” 

u That’s true,” said Jessamine, realizing 
that this sensation is one of the accompani- 
ments of thrilling adventures. “ Go on ; 
I ’m coming.” 

Fortunately, as they proceeded her timid- 
ity wore off, and she became exhilarated by 
a sense of freedom, and was able to admire 
the strange beauty of the wood. It was of 
pine, and its floor was as smooth as a parlor 
carpet, so that they frisked along rapidly. 

Often, before this, Jessamine had tried to 
summon courage for just such an expedition, 
in the hope of falling in with the fairies, 


124 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


who, she had read, were fond of dancing in 
the moonlight, and she could not help think- 
ing that if ever such good fortune befell her 
it would be on this occasion. 

They were now in the heart of the wood 
where the shadows were thickest, but the 
gloom was broken by flashes of moonlight 
as it sifted through the tree-tops or lay like 
golden lakes across little clearings in the 
forest. It was as they came upon one of 
these spots that Jessamine saw a sight that 
made her head reel. For in the lambent 
light of the moon was a circle of veritable 
fairies in all the wonderful sheen of fairy 
robes, and with glistening wings, whirling 
in the mad ecstasy of the dance. They 
were enchantingly lovely, with loosened hair 
waving over the polished surface of their 
white shoulders, and their slender limbs 
gleaming as they swung them to and fro in 
the moonlight. 

Jessamine crouched down by the trunk of 



Jessamine crouched down by the Trunk of an old Pink 






THE STOLEN WAND. 


125 


an old pine, hardly daring to breathe lest, 
frightened or angered by her presence, they 
should vanish away. She thought they 
looked like the good fairies who are kindly 
disposed to mortals, for their faces were soft 
as flowers and smiling sweet, and she was 
just gathering courage to approach them to 
beg a gift when she noticed that a heap of 
wands, probably thrown down before the 
dance, was within arm’s reach. 

Eealizing that here was the opportunity 
of a lifetime, she picked up a wand, and, 
jumping to her feet, flew through the wood 
with the speed of a thief who believes him- 
self pursued. If her heart had fluttered 
before, now it thumped and pounded against 
her side, so that by the time she reached the 
edge of the wood she was forced to stop and 
take breath. 

“ If I may be permitted to use the 
slang of the day,” said the Professor, who 
came scampering out of some hiding-place, 


126 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


“that was the cheekiest thing I ever saw 
done.” 

“ Anyhow, I Ve got the wand/’ answered 
the gleeful Jessamine. “ No more humdrum 
for me, thank you. Now I must try it, and 
I ’m going to change that little pine-tree into 
a knight.” 

So saying, she danced up to the young 
pine and tapped it lightly with the wand. 

“ The experiment is a failure,” croaked 
the Professor, after a moment’s expectant 
silence. “ I presume those wands were out 
of order and had been thrown away. The 
star at the top of this one seems loose, and 
I would suggest that you put in an extra 
screw.” 

He had hardly spoken the last word when 
the tree began to assume a man’s figure, 
with plumed hat, green mantle, and spurred 
boots, which emerged gradually, like the 
different objects in a negative. 

Jessamine watched the process with ad- 
miration and delight. 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


127 


“Well, he’ll do” she said at length, as 
he stepped forward. 

“ Do what ? ” asked the Knight, in a deep, 
reproachful voice. “ I don’t see that there 
is anything to do. Why have you summoned 
me from the romantic shades of the past 
into this prosaic modern world in which 1 
must live as a lonely survival of my race, 
without companions or adventures, and 
where my presence will not be — er — ” 

“ Supplying a long-felt want, so to speak, 
as it were,” put in the Professor, blandly. 

“ I would n’t dare even to go into the 
town for a night’s lodging,” continued the 
Knight, ruefully. “ I should be stared at. 
I should be regarded as a — ” 

“ Freak,” suggested Jessamine, regarding 
him critically. “ Yes, you certainly would. 
I ’m sorry you are displeased, but I suppose 
I can turn you back again into a pine-tree.” 

“ I respectfully request, then, that you 
will do so as soon as possible.” 


128 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


It seemed, however, that even with a 
wand one cannot always undo the conse- 
quences of a thoughtless act, and the poor 
Knight was forced to reconcile himself to 
his existence as best he might. 

He sat down on a stump, with his head 
buried in his hands, and was so picturesque 
and sorrowful that Jessamines heart melted 
within her, as the phrase goes, and, after a 
pause in which she meditated upon his soli- 
tary condition, she proposed, as the only 
amends possible, summoning a few other 
knights to keep him company. 

The transformation of five young pines 
into five stalwart knights was the work of a 
few moments. These were soon engaged in 
conversation with the oldest inhabitant (as 
the first Knight may be called), and the 
Professor, yawning frightfully, suggested 
that, as the gentlemen were amusing them- 
selves so pleasantly, they might as well 
retire. 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


129 


But the knights made this impossible by 
surrounding Jessamine, declaring that she 
was responsible for their plight, and must 
not leave the wood without improving their 
condition. 

“ I ’m tired. I want to go home and go 
to bed,” objected Jessamine, who was too 
sleepy to remember her aversion to being 
humdrum. 

“ But we have nothing to do,” said the 
knights, “ and our existence will be un- 
bearable.” 

“ Dear me, I should think there was 
enough you could do. You should go a-hunt- 
ing,” answered Jessamine, remembering that 
such was the traditional amusement of 
gentlemen of their condition. “ In the fairy 
tales the knights slay dragons, and rescue dis- 
tressed damsels, and all that sort of thing.” 

“ There aren’t any dragons here,” com- 
plained the sulky knights. “We want 
dragons.” 


9 


130 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


So Jessamine was obliged to turn some 
stones that were near by into dragons, and 
after that was done the knights said they 
wanted a few distressed damsels. 

Now on the edge of the wood grew some 
delicate little silver birches that had been in 
greatest agitation ever since the transforma- 
tion of the young pines into knights. With 
a tap of her wand Jessamine turned six 
of these into distressed maidens. In their 
slender grace and coy daintiness they were 
so utterly bewitching that she felt sure that 
they and the picturesque knights would fall 
in love at first sight, and be too much occu- 
pied with each other to pay any attention to 
herself. 

Yain delusion ! She had taken but a few 
steps homeward when the distressed dam- 
sels surrounded her with petitions. They 
wanted enchanted castles. They clamored 
for gloomy dungeons, for monsters to guard 
them, and cruel stepmothers. Neither were 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


131 


the knights satisfied, but asked for chargers 
and squires and dear knows all. To cap the 
climax, the dragons came up with a long 
list of grievances. Many hours Jessamine 
was forced to stay in the wood trying to 
satisfy their demands, and it w^as long after 
midnight before she reached her own home 
and went to bed. 

It seemed that she had hardly fallen asleep 
before the morning dawned, and the Pro- 
fessor awoke her as usual by jumping upon 
the bed. Jessamine turned her back on 
him, with the intention of having another 
nap, but he immediately proved to her that 
such a luxury could not be indulged in. 

“ Great advantages bring grave responsi- 
bilities/’ he said, holding up one paw and 
speaking with much seriousness, “ and you 
will readily see that a person who owns a 
wand cannot allow herself to drowse away 
precious hours. How the report has been 
spread I don’t know, but it’s nevertheless 


132 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


true that everybody in town has heard that 
you possess the power of giving him his 
heart’s desire, and the street is already 
blocked by discontented persons who are 
waiting to see you.” 

Hearing this, Jessamine felt compelled to 
get up and dress herself. Having snatched 
a hasty breakfast, she told the Professor that 
she would see the first comer, for she wanted 
to hurry through the business, and have a 
little sport with the wand on her own 
account. 

The first petitioner was a young lady. 
She had blue eyes, fair hair, pretty little 
features, and cheeks and lips as pink as a 
wax doll’s. 

“I want a fine, large, strong, Napoleonic 
nose,” she said to Jessamine. 

“ The one you have is very pretty,” Jessa- 
mine replied. “ I think you ought to be 
satisfied with it.” 

“ It has no character,” objected the pretty 


TIIE STOLEN WAND. 


133 


girl, “ and any one who has achieved any- 
thing in the world has had a large nose. 
There were Dante, Savonarola, and George 
Eliot. What could they have achieved with 
a nose like mine ? Then there was Napoleon 
Bonaparte.” 

“ He achieved the destruction of millions 
of men,” struck in the Professor, who disap- 
proved of war. 

“It ’s only fair to warn you,” said Jessa- 
mine, “ that if you are dissatisfied with the 
effect of a Napoleonic nose, as I think you 
called the kind you want, I have not the 
power to change it again. You ’ll have to 
keep it always.” 

“ So much the better,” said the pretty 
girl. “I shall have a feeling of security 
about it.” 

u And you must promise,” Jessamine went 
on, remembering her experience with the 
discontented knights, “to go right away 
when you ’ve got it, and never come back to 
bother me.” 


134 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


The petitioner .agreed to this, and, Jessa- 
mine having swung her wand, the delicate 
little nose that harmonized so well with the 
other features of the girl’s pretty baby face 
suddenly assumed the size and shape she 
asked for. The result was hideous, but she 
was apparently satisfied, and made way for 
the next comer. 

This was a concert-singer who wanted an 
attachment on his ears so that he would not 
be obliged to hear his own performances. 
After him came a farmer demanding rain 
for his hay and at the same time dry weather 
for his corn. And a milliner asked for a 
mirror that would make every woman look 
young and beautiful. 

Of course the children came in droves. 
There was no end to their wants, each one 
queerer than the last. 

All day long Jessamine worked indus- 
triously, but the shades of night fell upon a 
long line of discontented people who had 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


135 


not been able to present their petitions, and 
who went home only to return more clam- 
orous than ever on the following morning. 
This day passed like the foregoing. At the 
departure of each petitioner a dozen came 
to take his place. Jessamine worked on, 
however, upheld by the hope that the last 
discontented person in the town would 
be satisfied and she would be free. 

Weeks passed with no diminution of the 
crowd, and the Professor said that the peo- 
ple from all the adjacent villages and towns 
had heard of her and were flocking in. Of 
course it had occurred to Jessamine that if 
a fee were charged for each visit it would 
reduce the size of the crowd, but it turned 
out that the wand could not be worked as a 
financial scheme. 

Sometimes she would fling down the wand 
and refuse to see any one, but she could not 
go out without a mob at her heels imploring 
her to listen to their grievances. Even in 


136 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


her own room she was not unmolested, for 
the people would bring ladders and fling 
their complaints at her through the win- 
dows. It was work all day and every day 
for poor Jessamine. 

With what a passion of regret she looked 
back to the humdrum days when she was 
free, I will leave you to imagine ; nor will I 
stop to describe the deep sympathy that 
grew out of her own experience for her 
mother, who had worked so long and uncom- 
plainingly to take care of the family, while 
her own child was too selfish to do her part 
with cheerfulness. 

At night, instead of sleeping, she would 
try to think of some plan by which she could 
get rid of the wand, for no one would take 
it, even as a gift, knowing what trouble 
the possession of it involved. At length 
Jessamine thought of the girl with the 
Napoleonic nose, who was so anxious to 
achieve something, and sent word to her 


TIIE STOLEN WAND. 


137 


that there was no end to what she could 
achieve with this wand ; but the girl re- 
plied that she had too much character to 
play with toys. 

The Professor suggested that they might 
advertise it ; and this was done. Jessamine 
hoped that this plan might lead to some 
relief, but she received no answers, and as 
time wore on gave up in despair. 

A long time had passed since that moon- 
light night when she had stolen the fairy’s 
wand. It had been one of those long, weari- 
some days with which Jessamine was now so 
familiar, and, it being long after sundown, 
she said she would see one more petitioner, 
and then have the doors locked and go to 
bed. 

A girl of about her own age was brought 
in, — a girl with a scowl on her forehead, 
a shock of red hair, and a book of fairy tales 
under her arm. 

“ I live with two grandmothers and a yel- 


138 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


low cat,” she began, “ and everything is as 
humdrumy as it can be.” 

Jessamine looked closely at the girl, and 
it occurred to her that she very much re- 
sembled the image in the glass which she 
used to see in the days when she had time 
to look in it. 

“ It would n’t be humdrumy,” she an- 
swered, sternly, “ if you would do something 
beside read fairy tales. There is plenty you 
can find to do for other people, and in doing 
it you would be too happy to care whether 
things are humdrumy or not. In fact, they 
would cease to be humdrumy.” 

“ Bravo ! ” exclaimed the Professor, softly, 
clapping his paws. “ You are turning out 
quite a moralist, after all.” But the two 
Jessamines did not notice him, and Jessa- 
mine of the wand went on : — 

“ I don’t like that scowl on your forehead, 
your frowsy head, or the book of fairy tales 
under your arm, but nevertheless, for some 



The Stolen Wand. 


140 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


reason or other, I take a warm interest in 
you. I would like to help you.” 

“ That ’s what I hoped,” said the other 
Jessamine. “ I would like to be a princess 
and live in an enchanted castle. Will you 
grant me this wish?” 

“Not for the world — not for the world. 
Your own home, with the dear tired mother, 
your two nice old grandmothers, and the 
wise, contented cat, is better than any en- 
chanted castle could be.’ , 

This speech, kindly as it was meant, 
greatly incensed the discontented one, who 
immediately began to abuse the other as an 
impostor. Finding, however, that neither 
abuse nor reproaches had any effect upon 
her determination, she finally said : — 

“ Since you refuse to grant my wish, at 
least give me the wand.” 

“Never ! never ! ” answered the first 
Jessamine, holding the wand behind her. 
“ You are the one person in all the world I 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


141 


wouldn’t give it to. You don’t know what 
you are asking for.” 

In a violent passion the second Jessamine 
sprang toward her, and to defend herself she 
dropped the wand, which, with a parting 
twinkle of its star, like a knowing wink, 
vanished into nothingness. 

The two Jessamines fell to the floor in a 
violent struggle. They felt themselves writh- 
ing each in a desperate endeavor to free 
herself from the other. Then came the 
strangest sensation of blending together, and 
at length, the process being completed, a 
single figure lay perfectly quiet upon the 
hearth. 

Presently Jessamine sat up and rubbed 
her eyes. 

“ Where are we now ? ” she asked sleepily, 
stroking the back of the Professor, who 
unclosed his eyes and answered as stupidly 
an any common cat : — 

“ Meow ! ” 


142 


THE STOLEN WAND. 


Grandmother Grimkins woke herself with 
a sudden terrific snort, and Grandmother 
Fair weather sat bolt upright in her chair, 
looked about guiltily, and said : 

“ This is the blessed Sabbath.” — 


THE LITTLE PRISONER OF THE 
WOOD. 








' 



















































THE LITTLE PKISONER OF THE 
WOOD. 

ONEY, the donkey, had been given to 



the Henderson children collectively, 
which as Maurice said is a very bad way of 
giving a present. 

“ Whatever is given to me I want all to 
myself. If it ’s not mine to do exactly as I 
please with, I don’t want it at all.” 

“ Then give me your part of the donkey,” 
said shrewd little Stevie. 

“ Well, what is my part ? A pretty kind 
of a present when you can’t even tell what 
it is,” grumbled Maurice. 

“ Let ’s divide,” proposed Stevie. “ I 
choose the head. That’s the most impor- 
tant part.” 


10 


146 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

“ Not at all,” cried pretty Mabel. “ I ’ll 
choose the legs, and that ’s the same as the 
whole donkey.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Maurice. “ What are 
legs unless they are stuck into a body ? 
They are no more the donkey than the stem 
is a cherry. I ’ll take the body.” 

Each part of poor Toney was now appro- 
priated but the tail, which Midget instantly 
began to pull in token of ownership. 

The donkey put up one ear and looked 
out of the corners of his eyes at his new 
owners. He had what Mike the stable boy 
called “ a terrible grin on him.” 

This present (so ungratefully received) in- 
cluded a trim little wagon, to which Toney 
was now being harnessed. This done, the 
children made a rush at the wagon and 
climbed in any way, — up the step, over the 
wheels, in at the back, each screaming : 
“ Me first, me first,” in a desperate determi- 
nation to be the first to drive. 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 147 

Being spryer than the others, Mabel suc- 
ceeded in seizing the reins. She touched 
the donkey with the whip, and oft they 
started. 

Toney was determined to do his best, and 
Toney’s best was very good indeed. His 
gait was a little prim trot that was n’t 
very fast, and wasn’t very slow. It was 
just jog-trot, jog-trot, jog-trot, mile in and 
mile out, and that ’s the sort of gait that 
tells in the end. But he had gone only 
a short distance when Stevie screamed 
out : — 

“ You ’re going the wrong way. We 
want to go by the blacksmith’s pond,” and 
no attention being paid to this suggestion, 
he leaned over, and twitching the rein turned 
Toney’s head. “ My part is going back,” 
he said. 

“ You can take your old part off then,” 
cried Mabel ; “ my part is going to Grand- 


148 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

“ My part ’s going to the post-office/’ de- 
clared Maurice, in a loud obstinate voice. 

“ Well, the tail is a goin’ to stay wight 
here,” cried Midget, thinking she had found 
a chance of, for once, having her way. 

During this dispute Toney stood waiting 
patiently. He was a good traveller, but if 
it were a question of waiting, he was always 
willing to accommodate one. 

The quarrel was settled by an agreement 
between the children to go by turns to the 
points specified, and Mabel, who still held 
the reins, urged Toney on in the direction she 
had first started, composedly remarking : — 

“ Ladies first.” 

With each change of driver there was 
always a squabble, and the whip was a fer- 
tile cause of dispute. Once in an unlawful 
attempt to get possession of it (for it had 
been previously agreed that beating the 
donkey was the prerogative of the driver) 
Mabel fell out of the wagon ; and once 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 149 

while Maurice was driver and he guilelessly 
left his seat to secure a butterfly for his 
collection, Toney was driven off without 
him, and a hot chase he had to regain his 
place. 

The children each had a butterfly-net and 
a glass jar in which that summer numbers 
of beautiful creatures were to meet their 
death. In the bottom of the jar was a bit 
of cotton on which benzine had been poured, 
the fumes of which were supposed to cause 
instant death to the insects, but in Mabels 
jar a poor little beetle was still struggling, 
and a butterfly, that for hours had been 
imprisoned there, occasionally fluttered its 
wings in a long-drawn death. Mabel no 
more associated pain with these tiny things 
than with so much painted paper. 

As for Toney, he was jerked, beaten, 
teased with the lash, and prodded with the 
butt end of the whip. He was made to 
run up hill and down, on the supposition 


150 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

that one does not need to be careful of a 
donkey. 

In the course of a few hours he had trav- 
elled a pretty good distance, and at the end 
of the journey deserved approval. When 
his little masters and mistresses climbed out 
of the wagon, Toney had a right to expect a 
kind word and a gentle stroke of the hand. 
Our domestic animals need petting as chil- 
dren do. How endearing is their look of 
expectant praise, with its touching confes- 
sion of their dependence on us ! Further- 
more, it seems as churlish to accept without 
thanks their services as the service of our 
fellow-men. 

“ I should rather have had a pony than a 
donkey,” was the discouraging comment of 
Master Maurice. “ A pony can go faster.” 

“ And a pony is prettier,” added Stevie. 

“ I don’t fink it ’s the prettiest kind of a 
donkey. It ’s got too big ears,” chimed in 
Midget, whose experience of donkeys was 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 151 

limited, but who always came in strong in a 
chorus. 

“ He looks at you in such a horrid know- 
ing way, — just like a schoolmistress who 
thinks she has got you in a corner,” ob- 
jected Mabel. “ Look at him now,” she 
cried, waving her bottle of kidnapped in- 
sects. “ See how he grins at us.” 

In truth, Toney’s expression was ironical. 
Having listened to these sneers, perhaps he 
would have liked to express some opinions 
of his own, but one of the reasons why we 
get on so well with our animals is because 
they let us always have the last word. 

The little Hendersons were not models of 
behavior, by any means, but they were 
bringing themselves up as well as they 
could. They were obliged to perform this 
office themselves, for their father was dead, 
and their mother was trying to fill the place 
of both parents. But let her work as hard 
as she might, from day’s end to day's end, 


152 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

Mrs. Henderson never succeeded in getting 
through being father in time to be mother. 
She supported herself and her children by 
writing, for which purpose she was obliged 
to shut herself up in her own room all day, 
and if the young Hendersons had been asked 
what was the unpardonable sin, they prob- 
ably would have instantly replied : “ Dis- 
turbing Mamma.” 

When, on a rare occasion, she came among 
her children, she wore a lost, bewildered air, 
as if she were trying to make out who they 
were ; and Mabel once said that it seemed 
to her that Mamma belonged a great deal 
more to the people in her stories than she 
did to them. 

Mrs. Henderson did not always write 
stories. Sometimes she wrote excellent arti- 
cles on the education of children. 

It was in the early spring that Toney first 

came to the Hendersons. Notwithstanding 

© 

the children’s criticisms he was a remark- 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 153 

ably good-looking donkey. He was large 
and strong, black as a raven, and so sleek 
you could almost see your face in him. By 
autumn, however, after the constant jour- 
neying on dusty roads beneath the beating 
midsummer sun, you would hardly recognize 
him for the same animal. He was lean and 
lame, and his whole air feeble and dispirited. 

At length, one luckless day, he cut his 
foot on some glass on the road. A little 
rest would have cured it, but rest was not 
in the dictionary of the Henderson children, 
and poor Toney crawled on as before, though 
each step was torture. 

But one morning, when Mrs. Henderson 
looked out of her window, her eye fell on 
the unfortunate donkey who was limping 
home under the lash of his little masters. 

Shocked by the thoughtless inhumanity 
of her children, she had Toney unharnessed 
and put into the pasture with the order that 
he should be driven no more for the present. 


154 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

Midway on the sandy road between the 
school and the Henderson house, was a cool 
and enchanting grove. 

Here one hot day came Mabel. Her face 
was red from the blistering noonday sun. It 
was a September day, but as hot as midsum- 
mer. The heat seemed absolutely bubbling 
in the air. There had been no breeze on the 
road, and not a sound except the sizzling of 
the locust, but the air of the grove was 
cooler and moved in a dainty breeze. A 
little gurgling sound betrayed a brook hid- 
den somewhere in the greenery. 

The grove, which was principally of pine, 
lay between the road and the river. Some 
scrub land joined its boundary on the third 
side, and along the edge where Mabel walked 
were odorous New England pastures. 

The little girl stopped at length by an 
immense pine, which, standing by itself, free 
to the light, was more symmetrical than its 
neighbors. It was always called the bird 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 155 

tree by the Henderson children ; so many 
nests were in it, and so many birds hovered 
over it. She flung herself down on the 
smooth floor that the pine needles made, and 
sat frowning into the beautiful, peaceful 
wood. 

“ The idea of having to walk all this way 
on such a burning hot day. I ’ve a mind 
never to go home at all.” Her voice was so 
sharp it cut the air like a knife. “ Suppose 
Toney has a lame foot. There are worse 
things than a lame foot, and I ’ve got ’em.” 

A lame temper is far worse than a lame 
foot, and it cannot be doubted Mabel had 
that. 

She viciously killed a little ant that un- 
wittingly walked over her hand in a frantic 
endeavor to find the way over this huge ob- 
struction suddenly placed between it and its 
home. 

Mabel loved the woods. She loved the 
sweet aromatic odor of the pines. She loved 


156 LITTLE PRISONER OF TIIE WOOD. 

their music and the play of the sunshine on 
their dark trunks, but to a tender heart, one 
little living creature with whom we share 
the pains and pleasures of existence appeals 
more profoundly than whole temples of noble 
trees. 

On a twig of a little oak that grew near 
by, a dragon-fly suddenly alighted. It was 
not one of the large blue species which chil- 
dren call “ Devil’s Darning Needle,” but 
smaller, and its body was of a lovely red- 
dish yellow or yellow red, while the wings 
glistened like a flake of crystal. Its eyes, 
which were enormous, appeared to Mabel to 
be regarding her curiously. 

Her first impulse was to catch it for her 
collection, but a sudden drowsiness held her 
hands. It seemed to her, as she lay lazily 
watching it, that it grew larger each mo- 
ment ; at all events each part of its body 
became perfectly distinct. She learned, with- 
out knowing their names, that the insect 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 157 

was divided into three regions of different 
segments, a head, thorax, and hind body 
or abdomen ; that attached to the thorax 
were two pairs of wings and three pairs of 



Mabel and the Dragon-fly. 


jointed legs. As if through a microscope 
she saw the little spiracles or breathing 
holes in the sides of the body, and as never 
before she realized that the smallest insects 
are real living beings, with eyes to see, the 
means of breathing, digesting, and alas so 
made as to feel a hurt. Presently a voice 
startled her with a question. 


158 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

“ What have you there? ” it said. Mabel 
was just about to answer, “ A pretty red 
dragon-fly,” when the dragon-fly forestalled 
her. 

“Oh, I ’ve a girl to add to my collection ; 
not a rare specimen though. It ’s the com- 
mon country girl of New England.” 

“Upon my word,” exclaimed Mabel, jump- 
ing up, “ if you are n’t a saucy fellow.” 

But now with horror she perceived that in- 
stead of the dragon-fly having grown larger, 
she herself had been dwindling away until 
she was hardly bigger than the ant she had 
just killed. 

Her first impulse was to run as far as she 
could from the dragon-fly, but he immedi- 
ately-secured her by means of the hooklike 
apparatus in his under lip. Perhaps without 
intentional roughpess (judging by our own 
unlucky attempts in handling delicate little 
creatures) he broke ofl: one of Mabel’s fin- 
gers which were hardly thicker than a hair. 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 159 

“ Oh, you hurt me ! you hurt me ! Let 
me go,” moaned Mabel. 

“ How the thing buzzes, it ’s trying to get 
away,” said the voice that had first startled 
her, and looking up she beheld a squirrel on 
the lowest branch of the tree. To Mabel, 
however, it looked like some huge mammal 
of a pre-historic age, the great bones of 
which we sometimes see in natural history 
museums. 

u Is it good to eat,” questioned the squir- 
rel, turning its bright eyes upon Mabel 
who shivered with horror at this awful 
suggestion. 

“ No,” answered the dragon-fly, “ it ’s of 
no use whatever as food. It ’s of no use ex- 
cept as a specimen. If you ’ll call my way 
some day I ’ll be pleased to show you my 
collection.” 

“ You ’re very kind, but I ’m a practical 
fellow, and I ’m not interested in collections 
that are not to be eaten,” said the squirrel 


160 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

in a brisk, business-liko tone. “ But I would 
like to know why, if, as you say, these creat- 
ures are of no use as food, you take the 
trouble to collect them ! ” 

“To cultivate a taste for science,” was 
the answer. “ All the boys and girls at our 
school are making collections, and you can’t 
think how interested we all are. I ’m aw- 
fully fond of science, and I can’t see a speci- 
men of humanity without longing to stick 
a pin through it.” 

While this conversation was going on, 
Mabel, panting with fright, was making use- 
less efforts to free herself from the hold of 
the dragon-fly. Her struggles brought back 
to her mind the fluttering of a little moth 
she had caught that morning, and of whose 
terror and distress she had been (as it now 
seemed) strangely oblivious. 

But Mabel’s imagination at such times 
had never been quickened by a natural sym- 
pathy for “ our little brothers of the air,” 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 161 

and no one had ever tried to make her 
realize the bond between herself and other 
living beings. 

With the frantic impulse of self-preser- 
vation, she was still struggling to tear her- 
self from the dragon-fly, when all at once a 
soft humming sound broke into the stillness 
of the grove. Immediately there was a 
stirring of the leafage as a multitude of 
insects ran with expectant eagerness from 
their coverts, for behold ! flying across the 
dusky shadows of the grove came a glittering 
swarm of winged things. The chief of these 
was splendidly fantastic, shrouded in an 
iridescent gauze with two pairs of wings 
of the finest gold net, studded with crystals. 
She wore a crown, and was attended by 
myriads of the most brilliant insects, and 
Mabel did not need to be told that she beheld 
the queen of the insects and the court train. 

Stopping under the bird tree the queen 

addressed the dragon-fly. 

n 


162 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

“ I command you to let the human child 
go,” she said. And on the instant Mabel 
felt herself free. 

“ I obey, gracious Queen/’ answered the 
dragon-fly, “ yet she deserves no mercy.” 

“ True, at her hands our race has suf- 
fered fright, torture, captivity, and death ; 
but ’t is ordered that to-day through a 
like suffering she will realize her cruelty. 
Therefore let none of my people molest 
her.” 

She spread her wings and was gone. 
When she had passed, not a creature of her 
kingdom was visible. 

Mabel sank to the ground overcome with 
joy at her deliverance. She would willingly 
have rested there, but, recollecting how great 
the distance was that she must travel before 
she would reach her own home and how 
painfully slow her own locomotion must be, 
she forced herself to start on the journey. 
She was so small that she could not see far 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 163 

enough into the distance to know in which 
direction the way led, and it was like a 
journey into an unknown land. 

What dull, unimaginative creatures we 
must be that no throb of pity moves our 
hearts as we watch the frantic and apparently 
aimless motions of tiny insects seeking a 
lost trail, running confusedly this way or 
that, coming back to the starting-point only 
to set out in a contrary direction bound for 
no fixed point! 

In a couple of hours Mabel was quite 
exhausted. She was about two yards dis- 
tant from the spot in which the dragon-fly 
had left her, but she did not know whether 
in the right direction or still farther away 
from her home. 

A sense of her own powerlessness so 
oppressed her that she cast herself down on 
the ground, moaning. 

u Oh, what shall I do ? What shall I do ? 
Who will help me?” 


164 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

Immediately a voice murmured in answer 
through the pines : — 

“Find a creature that you have truly 
loved, and he will help you.” 

Mabel looked about her. Two pretty yel- 
low butterflies were playing around a blaze 
of sumach that the sun had found, but 
memory made her diffident of butterflies. 
Soon a humming-bird, the daintiest of all 
nature’s works, flew near her. 

“ I am sure I have always loved hum- 
ming-birds,” cried Mabel, holding out her, 
arms and signalling him. 

But the bird darted angrily toward her 
humming, — 

“ You wear my step-brother’s cousin on 
your best hat. Don’t ask help of me.” 

Mabel shrieked, thinking he meant to 
thrust his sharp bill through her in revenge ; 
but he flew away not caring to waste his 
brief beautiful day in vengeful feeling. 

For a long time Mabel sought a creature 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 165 

to help her, but each charged her with some 
act of cruelty ; and at length, convinced that 
she must live here in the woods until some- 
one of her own race rescued her, she found 
a house for herself in a crevice of the rough 
bark of a tree. 

The grove was a favorite play-ground of 
the Henderson children, and Mabel hoped 
it would not be long before occasion 
would bring her brothers and sister 
hither. 

In the mean time she shared the life of the 
multitude of living things that made their 
home in it. She shared their long day's busy 
quest for food. She felt their terror, learned 
to know the wild, palpitating fear with 
which at sight of an enemy they scud into 
holes and hiding places. She knew the. 
sweetness too, as well as the bitterness of 
their existence. Like them she loved the 
warmth of the sun, the refreshing dew, and 
the delicate flavor of the forest fruits. 


166 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

Although they were forbidden to help her 
escape from the woods, they were not un- 
friendly. The birds brought her checker- 
berries, and the squirrels dropped many a 
nut already cracked, near her lodging. 

So a long time passed (as measured by 
insect calendars) and Mabel was still in the 
grove. Although she tried to imitate the 
unvarying cheerfulness of her neighbors, 
there were times when, mastered by home- 
sickness and despair, she would creep into 
her little house and weep. 

One day when she had been unusually sad 
she received a call from the dragon-fly. 

“ Come out, come out,” he said, fluttering 
in his graceful way, around the tree in which 
Mabel had made her home. “ I have come 
to tell you that three beings that I take to 
be your brothers and sister have just come 
into the grove, and apparently they are 
coming in just this direction.” 

“ Thank you a hundred times for your 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 167 

good news/’ exclaimed Mabel, bounding out 
of her house. “ Tell me, dear dragon-fly, 
how long it will be before they will reach 
this spot.” 

“ Oh, ever and ever so long,” answered 
the dragon-fly. “You will have time to 
breathe a great many times and do many 
delightful things. Why, they are only at the 
entrance of the grove where the young trees 
grow so thickly and the moss is on the 
ground, instead of the needles that make 
our smooth carpet.” 

“ And where are they now , good dragon- 
fly ? ” asked Mabel, as soon as he had finished 
speaking, but it seemed to them both that a 
long time had passed. 

“ They have left three trees behind them, 
two pines and an oak.” 

“ And where are they now ? ” asked Mabel, 
a second time. 

“ By the rock where the woodchuck’s hole 
is. They are coming faster.” 


168 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

“ And where are they now ? ” asked Mabel 
a third time. 

“ By the three birches that glisten so in 
the sun,” answered the dragon-fly, as he rose 
higher in the air. “ They are near. They 
are near.” 

Mabel knew they were near for she dis- 
tinctly heard the heavy thud of their feet 
on the ground. 

Her heart nearly burst with joy. She 
sang, she shouted, she flung her arms over 
her head and danced. 

“ Oh, they are coming, they are coming. 
My brothers and sister are coming ; they are 
coming at last.” 

She threw back her head and laughed and 
laughed. 

Now she could really see them. There 
was Maurice with his dear flaming, red head ; 
there was Stevie with his pink cheeks and 
his blue, blue eyes, and Midget, the dearest 
of yellow-haired girls. Their legs twinkled 


LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 169 

as they flew over the smooth ground. They 
screamed with the shrill joyousness of chil- 
dren at play. 

“ This is the right way,” cried Maurice. 
“ Come this way.” 

“ No, that is the right way,” shouted 
Stevie. “ Is n’t it, Midget ? ” 

“ The one is the wight way that takes 
you to the wight place,” answered diplo- 
matic Midget. 

And they turned, — away from the straight 
course that must lead to poor Mabel's little 
house. 

“ Oh, Maurice, Stevie, Midget,” she cried, 
“ hear me.” 

But already they had turned into a little 
path that led far away. 

She ran forward screaming with all her 
puny might. She waved her hands, but 
they did not hear or see her. They were 
running fast — away — away — farther and 
farther. The bushes closed up behind them. 


170 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

They were gone — 

She fell down on the ground, crying and 
moaning, faint, hopeless, in utter despair. 

Then again she jumped up and screamed, 
in the sharpness of her cruel disappointment, 
— in her frantic regret. She called them by 
name, but it was of no more use than if they 
were on another planet. 

Now she realized that twenty times they 
might come to the grove without coming 
within reach of her feeble voice. The span 
of life of such little organisms as her own is 
short, and she thought she might die without 
ever reaching her own home. 

After this disappointment Mabel tried to 
resign herself to spending her life in the 
forest. She listened to the birds’ song and 
found it had not a hint of gloom in it. 
The crickets chirped cheerfully. If it were 
not for the birds and the crickets she would 
have given up all hope. 

One day when she had travelled farther 




Mabel leaned forward and pressed a Kiss upon his soft black Forehead. 




LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 171 

than usual in search of blueberries she came 
without knowing it to the pasture. For a 
long time she wandered about, and finally 
found herself in a thicket of sweet fern and 
bayberry.' The warm air was heavy with 
spicy odors, and Mabel, overcome with 
drowsiness, fell asleep. 

On waking, the first object she saw was 
Toney. Never would she have believed that 
the donkey could have stirred such a feeling 
of pleasure and affection in her heart. She 
called his name and he raised his head out 
of the odorous grass. 

Mabel jumped up and found, 1 to her great 
astonishment, that during her sleep she had 
attained to her normal size. She looked 
about her, and saw that she was still under 
the bird’s pine. On one side was the great 
dim grove, on the other the sweet sunny 
pastures. The dragon-fly was flitting farther 
away in the wood. 

“ Come, Toney,” she cried, chirruping 


172 LITTLE PRISONER OF THE WOOD. 

softly, and the donkey came limping towards 
her. 

Mabel stooped down and examined his 
foot. Yes, there was the cut, inflamed by 
her cruel usage. She put the foot gently 
down, and looking a moment full in his soft 
brown eyes, leaned forward and pressed a 
kiss upon his soft black forehead. 


HECTOR. 




















































































































































































































» 


































































































































































HECTOR. 



APPY dogs, like happy women, have 


X JL no history, therefore in the life of 
Hector, our hero, there had been no exciting 
events. His past was made up of gambols 
with the children, — of exhilarating runs on 
cool mornings, with a dash now and then 
into the sparkling river, followed by long 
naps in the pleasant sunshine, of plentiful 
rations and kind words, — in short, the ideal 
dog life. 

Hector was a handsome black and tan 
c.ollie, — a very Apollo of dogs, with a strong, 
well-formed body, a fine frank head, and 
beautiful soft pathetic brown eyes. On the 
whole, we will not liken him to the Greek, 
— he was too human. 


176 


IIECTOE. 


In Hector s love there was no calculation, 
in his trust no reserve. 

When Mr. Benson had first brought him 
home he dropped him into the cradle with 
baby Lilia. The cradle stood on the porch, 
and the baby girl and the pretty puppy 
nestled comfortably together on the same 
pillow. They were nearly of an age, but 
the protecting love for her which became 
the animating impulse of his dog-nature 
awoke then, for, some one passing the gate 
at this moment, Hector lifted himself on his 
wobbly legs at her side, and essayed his 
first feeble bark. 

He loved all the diildren of the Benson 
family, but from his point of view Lilia 
was his very own. Faithfully he had cared 
for her for the whole term of his natural 
life up to date, and five years is a long time 
to a dog and to a child. While Lilia was 
still a senseless baby, Hector had come into 
possession of the wonderful sagacity of his 


HECTOR. 


177 


race, and in their second year he had saved 
her life by dragging her off the railroad 
track in the face of a mad engine. But he 
did. not base his hope of her love on that. 



Hector. 


If he had remembered the act he was too 
magnanimous to remind her of her obliga- 
tion, but in fact he had entirely forgotten it. 
Dogs have no self-consciousness to belittle 
their heroism. 


12 


178 


HECTOR. 


It was in the autumn of their fifth j'ear 
that Hector’s history began. 

Imagine a long low room at dusk with a 
flickering wood fire, around which had gath- 
ered the four Benson children and Hector? 
their dog. The children were talking with 
animation, the dog lay with his chin flat to 
the floor and his eyes closed. He looked 
sleepy, but he was only thinking intently, in 
dog fashion of course, but still thinking. 
He was not lying there in sluggish content, 
for a sense of impending trouble had settled 
down upon him with the shadows of the 
night, which the leaping light of the flam- 
ing pine knots could not dispel. It is the 
grievous misfortune of dogs to have a keen 
presentiment of evil without the ability to 
understand its nature. 

Hector, then, full of foreboding, had kept 
close to Lilia’s side all day. He had pat- 
tered beside her as she had run from room 
to room and brought things to be packed 


HECTOR. 


179 


into great receptacles. Hector was unfa- 
miliar with trunks, the Benson family not 
being travellers. 

“ I believe that dog knows just as well as 
anybody that we are going away,” Mrs. Ben- 
son said once, looking curiously at their 
faithful friend as he stood with his nose at 
the edge of the trunk she was packing, gaz- 
ing with his solemn eyes into its depths. 

“ Oh, lor, yes, he knows,” answered Susan, 
who had been housekeeper, nurse, cook, gen- 
eral factotum of the establishment, and like 
Hector, was now adrift. “ Ain’t you noticed 
how dejected he is, an’ how he toilers Lilia ? 
Dogs ain’t folks, they always stick to their 
friends.” 

“Course he knows,” said Jock, sitting 
astride a trunk already locked and strapped. 
“ Come here, old fellow, come.” 

He whistled, but Hector only wagged his 
tail genially by way of answer, and crept 
still closer to Lilia. 


180 


HECTOR. 


In reality, Jock was Hector’s best friend, 
but no more than the rest of us do dogs 
always give their hearts into the safest 
keeping. 

“ I say, mother,” said Jock, “ I wish we 
could take Hector with us.” 

“Well, we can’t,” the mother answered. 
“Your aunt Mabel hates dogs, and we 
could n't take one to her house.” 

The Bensons, as before said, were a stay- 
at-home people. It is doubtful if the two 
younger children, Jock and Lilia, had ever 
been as far as Boston, although it was but 
a distance of forty miles from their home. 
Naturally, they were pleased and excited at 
the prospective change in their lives, and 
as they sat by the fire they were talking 
like magpies of the pleasures that had been 
promised them. 

Having thought long to no purpose what- 
ever, poor Hector got up and went from one 
to another, standing wistfully by each, wedg- 


HECTOK. 


181 


ing his sharp nose under the arms as if he 
could not get near enough ; and now and 
then putting his fore-paws on a child’s lap, 
and raising his face to his with a look which 
seemed to say, 

“ Tell me what it ’s all about.” 

“ Giving up Hector is just the worst of 
it,” said Jock, smoothing the collie’s silky 
head. “It spoils the whole.” 

“ Aunt Mabel says I shall go to dancing- 
school, and I shall have 3, real pink silk 
dress ; what do you think of that, old 
doggie ? ” Lilia pulled Hector down on 
the rug beside her. She put her little fin- 
gers in his mouth, and he was careful not 
to shut it until they were withdrawn. 

“ You ’re good enough for him in any old 
calico,” said Jock. “Mother, why can’t we 
take Hector with us ? ” 

“ Because your father promised Mr. White 
when he sold him the farm that he should 
have the dog.” 


182 


HECTOR. 


“ He ’ll be kind to him, won’t he ? ” asked 
Lilia. 

“ Certainly. He is a kind man, I know.'’ 

Mrs. Benson spoke with conviction. She 
had a comfortable habit of believing what- 
ever was most agreeable. Lilia was her 
darling, and the look of uneasiness on Lilia’s 
face acted as a confirmation of her belief in 
Mr. White’s benevolence. “ I ’in sure he 
would be kind to animals. Don’t you 
worry, dear,” she said. 

But Lilia was not worrying, — at least not 
about Hector. Her only anxiety was lest 
the weather should prevent their going on 
the morrow. 

However, the sun rose clear and the Ben- 
sons were early astir, making their prepara- 
tions for departure. 

Hector always slept at the foot of Lilia’s 
bed. While his little playfellow was being 
dressed, it was his custom to take a run 
across country. He loved the freshness of 


HECTOR. 


183 


the early morning air. He liked the feel of 
the good old earth with the dew on it. This 
morning he would not go out, but watched 
Lilia while she stood on a chair and had her 
hair curled. Once or twice Lilia leaned over 
the back of it and reached down to pat him, 
and he licked her bare legs where the stock- 
ings had fallen down. 

“ Poor Hector,” she said cheerfully, “ Mr. 
White will be good to you. Mother says 
so.” 

The breakfast was hurried and nobody 
had much appetite, Hector least of all. 
Once Jock tossed him a bit of biscuit, which 
he caught with a patient effort to answer 
his friend’s expectations, but he did not ask 
for more. After breakfast the family gath- 
ered in the sitting-room. The sight of his 
friends clad in their out-of-door clothes ex- 
cited Hector, who kept running to the door 
and barking — little sharp barks of delight, 
and then going back to the children, as 


184 


HECTOR. 


much as to say, “ What on earth are you 
waiting for?” 

“He thinks he is going too, poor old fel- 
low! He would never leave us, as we are 
going to leave him,” said Jock, mournfully. 

“Well of course not, he’s a dog” an- 
swered the mother, unconscious of irony. 
“When we go you look out, children, that 
he does n’t slip out with us. Lilia had best 
go out last. He won’t want to go till she 
does.” 

“ I ’ll manage him,” cried Lilia. 

So all was arranged, Hector with his 
trustful eyes looking intently into the face 
of each speaker. When the sound of wheels 
crunching the gravel was heard, he was wild 
with the expectation of immediate depart- 
ure, and could hardly believe in the fate 
which a moment later made him the sole 
occupant of the room. 

The family crowded quickly into an old 
carryall that had well earned its name, no 


HECTOR. 


185 


one noticing in their haste the head of 
Hector at the window, his ears erect, his 
eyes with agonized intentness fixed upon his 
vanishing friends. 

This, then, was the meaning of that vague 
sense of disaster that had followed him like 
his shadow. As the carriage drove away 
Hector bounded to the door, whining pite- 
ously. Then back again to the window. 
He could now just see the carriage as it 
turned the curve in the road marked by 
some sombre pines. 

It was one of those exquisite days such 
as sometimes enchant us in early winter, and 
which gem like opals the dreary memory of 
November, — days beside which the coloring 
of the spring or the summer is almost com- 
monplace, for now the atmosphere has magic 
in it. The shadows are wonderfully trans- 
lucent on these days, and the lights vaguely 
soft and subtle. It was yet early morn- 
ing, and the dew drenched the fields over 


186 HECTOR. 

which at this hour Hector was so often 
bounding. 

At length, he settled himself by the 
door. Hector knew well how to bide his 
time. 

It was about noon when Mr. White’s fur- 
niture loaded on great wagons stood before 
the door, and the family followed soon after 
in a station wagon. The spectacle of the 
unloading of the furniture, and the sound 
of men tramping over the house, lashed poor 
Hector into fury. For the time he even 
forgot to grieve for Lilia ; and the worst of 
it was, that except by menacing growls he 
was powerless to resent this apparent dese- 
cration of his master’s home. 

The new family consisted of Mr. White, 
his wife, and mother. The two women 
went over the house examining and criti- 
cising everything. One room, however, the 
room in which Hector had been shut up, 
they made a short survey of. 


HECTOR. 


187 


“ That J s a dretful cross dog,” said the old 
lady, panting, as she and her daughter-in- 
law went back to the kitchen. “I s’pose 
it ’s the one Mr. Benson left. I guess if he 
keeps it John had better have it muzzled, 
but I reckon he won’t keep it.” 

“ Yes, he will,” answered the wife, and 
from the way she jerked her head, it seemed 
likely that Hector would stay. “I think 
we need a dog for protection in this for- 
saken out-of-the-way place, and the crosser 
the better.” 

Mrs. White prided herself upon always 
having lived in the city. She called an}^ 
place in the country lonesome. She missed 
the shops and the street cars. The sound of 
the crickets and hylas gave her the blues, 
and she thought pine-trees funereal. She 
had a city soul. 

“ Protection,” chuckled the old woman, 
only she pronounced it perfection. 66 1 guess 
you ’ll get enough of bein’ perfected if you 


188 


HECTOR. 


keep a dog. I never ’ll forget that time I 
stayed with Ann Sarah Cotton.” 

“ You ’ve told me all about it, mother, 
lots of times.” 

“ Wei, Ann Sarah is dretful fond of dogs, 
an’ so is all the Cotton tribe,” the old lady 
began exactly as if she had been urged to 
tell the tale. “ They generally keep two 
or three of ’em, but this time I was visiting 
there, there was only one, a real snappy, 
cross lookin’ thing that she made out was a 
first-class watch-dog. She said she would n’t 
mind stayin’ all livin’ alone in that house 
if she could only have this dog for pertec- 
tion. Wal, after a while it happened that 
George Cotton he had to go to Boston on 
business, an’ we two women an’ little 
Georgy were left alone overnight. Their 
farm is a lonesome place, an’ I did n’t like 
the idee a mite. I got an old coat of his 
an’ flung it down on a chair as if it had 
just been taken off, an 5 I set a pair of his 


HECTOR. 


189 


shoes by the stove, so that if any one 
should break in ’t would look as if there 
was a man in the house. If George had 
only left enough of his voice to call out 
‘ Who ’s there,’ I should have felt tolerable 
easy, but Ann Sarah’s is a high treble voice 
an’ mine ain’t as you might say bass. Wal, 
about midnight that dog began to bark. It ’s 
an awful shivery sound to have a dog 
barkin’ in the house in the middle of the 
night.” 

“‘He hears something,’ whispered Ann 
Sarah. 

“ ‘ What do you s’pose ’ 1 is,’ says I. 

“ ‘ It ’s a tramp,’ she says in a tremblin’ 
tone. 

“We got up an’ went out into the kitchen 
an’ looked about. The dog was just possessed 
to have us go down into the cellar. He ’d 
take hold of our clothes with his teeth an’ 
pull us to the door. 

“ 6 1 ’ll go fust, ’ says Georgy, for he had 


190 


HECTOR. 


heard the dog and come with us into the 
kitchen. 

“ He looked awful small in his little night- 
shirt as he opened the cellar door and plunged 
down into the darkness, an’ his mother an’ 
I, bein’ ashamed to let him go down alone, fol- 
lowed right after him. Wal, don’t you think 
there wasn’t nothin’ or nobody there. I 
reckon the dog waked us up just for company; 
but after that, one night, long after I went 
home, a burglar did break into that house 
an’ took silver teaspoons an’ George’s watch 
beside other val’ables an that dog slept through 
the whole of it ari never made a sound ! ” 

It ’s not likely that the piping voice of the 
old woman reached Hector who was there- 
fore spared the exasperation of hearing this 
highly improbable story. He saw no one 
again until late in the afternoon when a man 
came, and with many kicks and curses suc- 
ceeded in putting a rope round his neck and 
dragging him into the stable. This was the 
humane Mr. White. 


HECTOR. 


191 


The next day Hector found himself chained 
with the added indignity of a muzzle upon 
his head, — he, the gentle playmate of babies, 
the uncorruptible friend of men ! No effort 
was made to win his confidence. None re- 
membered the cause for bewilderment and 
distress in his poor dog mind. No one pitied 
or comforted him. Once a day he was given 
food, but he could not eat it. Sometimes 
Mr. White came and examined his muzzle to 
see that it had not got loose and that the 
chain held strong. 

For two days he endured this humiliation, 
and then one morning when the opportunity 
came, broke loose. He had pulled the iron 
ring to which the chain was attached from 
the stable wall. Having assured himself 
that during the days of his captivity his 
dearly beloved ones had not returned, he 
started off on a dead run in search of them. 
Hector was not without plan ; he meant to 
go first to the house of a cousin of Mrs. Ben- 


192 


HECTOR. 


son’s where, once or twice, he had been with 
the children. His progress was hindered by 
the chain which was still attached to his 
collar, and which was heavy. Every now 
and then it caught round some bush or tree 
and caused him some trouble to free himself. 
It was at a time when he was struggling in 
this way that he heard the sound of approach- 
ing wheels. Now long before any one came 
in sight, by the marvellous instinct of dogs, 
Hector knew that the horse that was jogging 
along the road was the old sorrel that had 
been his companion in the stable for the 
last few days, and that he was driven by the 
humane Mr. White. 

The wagon was still some distance away, 
but he realized as he tugged at the chain 
that he was pretty firmly caught. Hector 
was of splendid strength, but even he could 
not break an iron chain, nor yet could he hit 
upon the right movement that would disen- 
gage it. As the wheels came nearer, Hector 


HECTOR. 


193 


grew frantic, straining every sinew in his 
effort to free himself, — his eyes were almost 
bursting from his head and he panted vio- 
lently. 

“ Blessed if that ain’t my dog,” said Mr. 
White when he came in eye range of Hector. 
“ He has got loose somehow, but he ’s fixed 
himself now. I ’ll git him.” 

“I’d let him go if I was you, John,” said 
his mother, and a little sharp face framed in 
a black bonnet looked out of the side of the 
wagon. “ He ain’t worth his keep. I have n’t 
much opinion of dogs, anyhow. Did I ever 
tell you about that watch-dog of Ann Sarah 
Cotton’s ? ” 

“ Well, I should rather think you had,” 
answered John, who was not as respectful as 
he should have been to his old mother ; but 
then what do you expect of a man who abuses 
dumb, harmless, helpless beasts ? “ I ’ve had 

that story for breakfast, dinner, and supper 
for a month.” 


13 


194 


HECTOR 


He was much amused at Hector’s predica- 
ment and was laughing heartily as, jumping 
from the wagon, he bent down to disentangle 
the chain. 

Hector stood still, watching his master out 
of the corner of his eye. When the chain 
was loose he made a sudden spring, jerking 
it out of Mr. White’s hand, and dashed 
away. 

Mr. White got into his wagon and whipped 
his horse furiously. It was a race for liberty, 
for love, for everything that made life desir- 
able to Hector, but he was already exhausted 
by the desperate struggle he had made, and 
the horse gained on him. He could hear the 
thud of his hoofs on the road and the cruel 
crack of the whip as it lashed his straining 
loins. Hector redoubled his efforts, — he put 
forth the whole strength of his strong, well- 
constructed body, and with a wise instinct he 
kept in the middle of the road where he 
would run no chance of entanglement. 


HECTOR. 


195 


Mr, White followed until he could no 
longer see the distant black object moving 
rapidly on in a whirl of dust, with the chain 
trailing after him like a snake along the 
whiteness of the dusty road. 

“ The brute ain’t worth chasing,” Mr. 
White decided, having already chased him 
some miles ; and with the hearty approval of 
his mother, he turned round and went home. 

Not knowing this, Hector continued to run 
for some time. Then utterly exhausted, he 
crept into a boggy wood at the side of the 
road. He stretched himself on the cool, 
moist ground and lay there panting; for the 
remainder of the day and all that night he 
lay there, unable to move. 

The Bensons had no regrets for the old 
farm-home. They were to spend the winter 
with a sister of Mr. Benson whose husband 
had money, and, as it appeared to the children, 
lived in great style in a pretty suburb of Bos- 
ton There were no children in this family, 


196 


HECTOR. 


and the young Bensons were made great pets 
of. Being fond of luxury, fond of admiration 
and display, Lilia in particular rejoiced in this 
new way of life, and grew more silly, vainer, 
more selfish every day. You may well 
believe she gave no thought to Hector. 

Sometimes, however, Jock would look sud- 
denly grave, as some black dog, sleek of fur, 
with frank intelligent face or wistful brown 
eyes, would trot past him on the street. He 
was of a finer fibre than his sister and could 
not quite forget a friend. 

One day Lilia was going to town with her 
aunt. The aunt was a pretty woman with 
light hair which shone like gold in the sun, 
and she always dressed in style. It was 
Lilia’s ambition when grown to be just such 
a lady as her Aunt Mabel. Lilia wore a 
new dress, and a beautiful velvet coat 
trimmed richly with fur, which the aunt 
had given her, and she did not look at all 
like the child Hector had played with, — a 


HECTOR. 


197 


careless little country girl in the plainest of 
gingham frocks. 

The weather had been very variable that 
week. At first it had been unseasonably 
cold. Then it had moderated and snowed, 
and then moderated more and rained. The 
sun was now shining brilliantly, but great 
pools of water stood in the streets and people 
were obliged to carefully choose their way. 

Lilia and the dressy aunt were hurrying 
along the plank walk to the station, for they 
were anxious to catch their train and they 
were a little behind time. It was a Satur- 
day afternoon, and as a great treat the aunt 
was to take Lilia to a matinee. The child 
had never been to the theatre, and the antici- 
pation of such an event set her little feet to 
dancing so that she could hardly keep the 
pace of her less eager companion. 

But all at once an obstacle came in the 
way, — a great black gaunt creature, a muddy 
dog with a broken chain hanging from his 


198 


HECTOR. 


collar, with a lame leg mangled and bloody, 
and a general look of having been frozen 
and starved, ran suddenly up and with great 
awkward dog-love flung himself upon Lilia. 

The little girl recognized her old play- 
fellow, but no answering joy sprang up in 
her little cold heart. 

“ It’s Hector” she whimpered, “and he 
has spoiled my pretty coat.” 

Hector stood quite still wagging his tail, 
his eyes fixed, oh, so entreatingly, upon 
Lilia. 

He felt her repulse but he did not know 
how he had erred. How should a dog know 
that to some natures faithfulness and love 
are cheap besides velvet coats ! He stood 
there looking at her with his whole soul 
(you may supply a fitter word if you can 
find it) in his eyes. It was a tragedy, 
the tragedy of a noble love, slighted. A 
tragedy, although the actors were only a 
little girl and a dog. 


HECTOR. 


199 


In her irritation Lilia doubled up her fist 
and struck him. 

“ You can’t go with me now/’ the aunt 
said. “You are splashed with mud from 
head to foot. I shall have to go alone.” 

She hurried on, and Lilia crying piteously 
went home. 

Of course Hector followed. He was be- 
wildered — a dog is so often bewildered — 
but not resentful. When Lilia reached the 
house she went in and closed the door upon 
him, and Hector lay down on the doorsteps 
that being the nearest he could get to her. 
With all a dog’s infinite patience he waited 
for her to come out again, but Lilia did not 
come out. So he lay there quietly licking 
his bruised leg and probably forgetful of the 
hardships he had passed through, rejoiced 
that he had found his own and could be with 
them again. 

When the aunt came back she was irri- 
tated by finding him there. They tried to 


200 


HECTOR. 


drive him away, but he would not go. A 
man was hired to carry him off and keep 
him, but the next day he reappeared and 
kept his place on the doorstep. Sometimes 
Jock would bring him a bone or a piece of 
bread. Once or twice Lilia came out, and 
his joy at seeing her was pitiful considering 
the displeasure his presence occasioned. 

It was the aunt who finally decided that 
Hector must be killed. 

“ We’ll send to the Society for the Pre- 
vention of Cruelty to Animals and they 
will come and chloroform him. They will 
come twenty miles to kill a cat/’ she said, 
“ I ’in sure it will be a mercy to put the poor 
lame dog out of his misery.” 

“ But I could cure Hector if I only could 
bind something on his leg and keep him out 
of the cold,” pleaded Jock. 

When the children were alone he asked 
Lilia to beg for Hector’s life. 

“ You show them how bad you feel and 
they won’t kill him,” he said. 


HECTOR. 


201 


Lilia promised, but her grief was too slight 
to affect one’s imagination. 

So one day two men came to take as pain- 
lessly as possibly the life that had been de- 
voted to this little selfish child, but which 
was now simply an inconvenience. 

It was so difficult to entice Hector from 
his post on the door-steps that Lilia was 
summoned to lead him to the spot where he 
was to be killed. Unsuspicious of treachery 
he followed her, gambolling as well as his 
stiff limbs would permit in his joy in her 
company. His trustful love at length pierced 
the hard husk of the little girl’s heart. She 
kissed him with sincere tears and left him, 
a king of love and loyalty, waiting his 
reward. 

Lilia ran crying into the house. 

“You’ll get over it,” said Jock, with con- 
tempt in his trembling boy treble. “ You ’ll 
forget it with the first new gewgaw you 
get.” 


202 


HECTOR. 


u Don’t cry, darling,” said the mother, who 
had better have rejoiced at this evidence of 
true feeling in her shallow child. “ Don’t 
cry. You know it won’t hurt Hector. He ’ll 
not know anything about it.” 

“ Oh no, it ’s just a picnic for Hector,” said 
Jock sarcastically. “ Lilia ’s the one to be 
pitied ’cause he spoiled her new coat.” 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 




THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 


T here were two Scotch collies in 
Cloverbank, one belonged to the 
rich Moreys on the hill, and the other the 
river-end Moreys’ Rab. The former was a 
pampered animal, in whom I have no in- 
terest whatever ; but the latter was a most 
affectionate, faithful creature, and the only 
companion poor little Martha Morey ever 
had. It was this dog that had the mis- 
fortune to mistake the tax-collector for a 
tramp. 

Old Sam Morey and little Martha lived 
alone in an unpainted, tumbledown house, 
with old-fashioned “ lights” over the door, 
and a dove-cote under the eaves. The 
house had a fine view of the river which 
marked the boundary of this end of the 


206 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

town, — 66 the river end/’ as the Clover- 
bank people called it, and in a tone which 
betrayed the fact that it was by no means 
the court end of the town. 

The Moreys on the hill did not exchange 
calls with the river-end Moreys, although 
both were descended from a certain sturdy 
old John Morey, who had settled in Clover- 
bank over a hundred years ago. It is 
doubtful whether the richer and luckier of 
the two families could have told exactly 
what the connection was ; and the daughter 
of the house, little Isabel, never dreamed 
that the same blood flowed in her veins as 
in the wild little creature’s who lived at the 
river end. Martha Morey, however, had 
often listened to the family history, and 
sometimes told Rab — who received the 
intelligence with a sniff of indifference — 
that he was a sixteenth cousin of that other 
Scotch collie that lived in the big house on 
the hill. 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 207 

“Why,” said Bill Swift, who on one 
occasion overheard this boast, “ they are n’t 
any better folks than you and your father 
be.” 

“ Better folks ! Why, Bill, they are — 
they are the best family in town. They 
have silver forks, Bill. Why, they have a 
piano ! ” 

I forgot Bill Swift when I said Martha 
and her father lived alone. But then, he 
went home every night to a little shanty of 
his own, and besides, Bill was just next to 
nobody. If he had not been, he would 
never have worked for old Sam Morey 
“ for his keep.” And such “ keep ” ! You 
can imagine what it must have been, with 
shiftless Sam to provide, and poor little 
Martha as housekeeper and cook. 

Poor little Martha, indeed ! What a life 
the child had led before that never-to-be- 
forgotten day when Rab came ! How she 
had longed for companionship, even trying 


208 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

to make friends with the frogs in the spring. 
There were long days, often with no human 
face to look upon, except, perhaps, the 
grimy countenance of a tramp, whose rough 
look would cause her heart to beat like a 
trip-hammer. And, worse than all, there 
were the nights when Sam — Heaven help 
him ! — did not come home at all, and 
which Martha passed listening to the wind 
whistling in the pine-tops and the windows 
rattling in the casement. 

But enough of these dismal memories ; 
for the day came at last, when her father 
brought home a lovely black-and-white 
puppy (with a sharp little nose and a tail 
just like a rat's), and said in his pleasant 
way, — for with all his faults old Sam 
Morey always spoke kindly to his little 
girl, — “ Marthy, here ’s a playmate for 
you.’' 

Dear old Rab ! A playmate ! Why he 
was the most loyal, adoring of friends, and 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 209 

a brave protector besides. He grew big 
and handsome every day, with a sleek black 
coat, and a white vest ; and his tail, which 
he had so grand a way of waving in the 
air, became unusually bushy and majestic. 
He was an endless diversion to Martha with 
his funny dog-ways, — such as dancing 
around after his tail, and giving sly licks 
at her cheek in unguarded moments ; even 
the funny little flap of his ears when he 
ran delighted her, and his trick of resting 
his chin on her lap when she ate, and nudg- 
ing her with it from time to time to attract 
her attention to the fact that he, too, was 
hungry. 

Martha knew that he longed for the gift 
of speech, if only to tell her how he loved 
her. At least, so his brown eyes seemed to 
say, as he sometimes stood by her side look- 
ing patiently, wistfully into her face. 

Rab fully realized what an unguarded life 
his little mistress led, and constituted him- 

14 


210 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

self her body-guard. No grimy tramp set 
Martha’s heart beating now, for Rab became 
a terror even to the innocent passer-by. 
You would have thought, to hear him 
growl, that old Sam Morey’s dilapidated 
buildings were storehouses of wealth. 

One day, old Isaac Hunter was driving to 
the village, and his harness broke in front 
of the Morey house. Isaac stopped his 
horse and descended slowly from his wagon, 
when Rab, who with ears upright and glar- 
ing eyes had been watching him from the 
door-step, dashed down the path, barking 
furiously, and seized the old man by the 
leg. If Martha had not appeared just 
then upon the scene, there is no knowing 
how the encounter would have ended. As 
it was, there was a hole in Isaac’s top- 
boot. 

“ Is that your dog ? ” asked he of Martha, 
who was holding Rab by the ear. 

“ Yes, sir.” 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 211 

“ Had him long ? ” 

“ Two years/' answered innocent Martha, 
with a fond pat on Rab’s sleek black 
head. 

“ Long enough to have taught him better 
manners/' said ungracious Isaac, as he gath- 
ered his reins together and drove off. 

That very evening, as Sam sat, with his 
pipe, in the front yard, a neighbor leaned 
over the gate and thus addressed him : 
“ Hello, Sam, why don’t you shingle your 
roof ? " 

“ Wall,” said Sam, taking the pipe from 
his mouth, “ there don’t seem to be any 
right time to shingle a house. Can’t when 
it rains, you know. And when it 's pleas- 
ant, there 's no need of it.” 

The neighbor laughed, and presently began 
again : “ I say, Sam, have you paid your 
dog-tax this year?” 

“ Blest, now, if I have n’t forgotten that 
tax ! ” said Sam, scratching his head ; but 


212 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

adding, with a sudden glance of suspicion, 
“ Why are you so free with your ques- 
tions ? ” 

“ Well, it is n’t exactly from curiosity, 
Sam. You see, old Isaac Hunter passed 
here to-day, and your dog introduced him- 
self to notice. Isaac collects the dog-tax, 
you know, and he says there has n’t any 
tax been paid on your dog, this year; nor 
last year, either, for the matter of that. I 
thought I ’d be neighborly, and let you 
know that he is coming down to-morrow 
night to collect.” 

“ You don’t mean it ? ” said Sam. “ It ’ll 
be uncommon inconvenient. I can’t let him 
have the. money then.” 

“ Well, there is no vray to avoid the tax, 
they say, but to kill the dog.” 

To kill dear old Rab ! Can you under- 
stand, you children with tender parents, 
with brothers and sisters, with hosts of 
friends, with never-ending amusements, — 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 213 


can you understand what the words meant 
to lonely little Martha Morey ? 

“ Oh, father/’ she cried, “you wouldn't 
kill Rab ! ” 

“ Marthy,” answered Sam, with his eyes 
on the vanishing figure of his neighbor, 
“ I have n’t got a penny to my name, and 
that ’s the truth.” 

She flung her arms around the dog, and 
buried her face in his shaggy coat. Her 
faithful, only friend ; and he loved her so ! 

“ I dunno as I could kill him myself,” 
continued Sam, looking at the two with a 
troubled face. “ Bill Swift will have to do 
it. Come, Marthy, — come, little gal, — 
don’t take on so ! ” 

The tax was two dollars — such, a trifle 
against Rab’s life ! Sam went out, — poor, 
weak, old fellow, — unable to witness 
Martha’s misery. It was bright moonlight, 
and the child wiped her eyes bravely, for 
she remembered to have heard that huckle- 


214 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

berries were ripe in the lower pasture ; and 
she would work instead of cry. Would her 
father try to raise the money and save Rab ? 
She seized a basket, poor little desperate 
soul, and calling her dog, shut the door of 
the house. 

It was a long walk to the pasture, but she 
had soon scrambled over the wall and made 
her way to the place where the berries grew. 
I have never picked berries by moonlight, 
but I can imagine what the difficulties may 
be. Martha trailed through the wet bushes 
and picked with nervous, eager fingers, 
without daring to think how many berries 
it would take to earn two dollars, or 
whether four dollars, even, might not be 
demanded by that hard-hearted collector of 
taxes. Meantime, Rab kept close to her 
side, watching proceedings with wise eyes, 
as if he, too, understood all about it. By 
midnight the moon went down, and Martha 
sadly groped her way home. 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 215 

There, she lit a lamp and measured the 
berries. Only two quarts ; but in her des- 
peration a thought had come to her, and 
holding fast to the hope it held, she at last 
fell asleep. 

The sun shone in her eastern window, and 
woke the little sleeper at the usual hour. 
Martha’s trouble woke, too, and urged her 
to hurry about her morning work. She 
made the fire and cooked the breakfast. 
She gave Rab his, too, which he ate with 
his usual appetite, unconscious that his life 
was trembling in the balance. Ah, poor, 
loving Rab, who licked Sam’s hands, and 
stood looking trustfully into his face at the 
very moment when he was telling Bill that 
he must shoot the dog. 

“ This afternoon, sometime, Bill, you 
must find time to do it,” Sam said, “ for 
Isaac Hunter is coming for the tax in the 
evening; and, mind you, I don’t mean to 
own any dog then. Come toward sunset. 


216 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

Now, Marthy, keep ’round the house with 
him.” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Martha, with her usual 
meekness ; but, for the first time in her life, 
she avoided her father’s kiss. 

The berries she had picked, upon inspec- 
tion by daylight, proved very unsalable ; 
they were hardly ripe, and the preponder- 
ance of green berries was perceptible. 
Nevertheless, Martha got her hat and put it 
on. Looking in the little cracked glass, she 
saw a slender girl with dusky hair, beneath 
which her face seemed unusually small and 
delicate. Blue eyes full of tears, a little 
mouth set in a sad curve, the dress old and 
faded. Then she kissed dear old Rab, shut 
him in the house in spite of his frantic en- 
treaties to go, too, and set out for the village. 

It was to one of the stores of Cloverbank 
that Martha was bound, on an errand the 
very thought of which made her cheeks burn. 
She was going to do what she had never 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 217 



done before, — to beg a favor. But it was 
for Rab’s life, and with this reflection she 
plucked up courage and went in. 

“ And so you want me to make you a pres- 
ent of two dollars, — eh? Well, that is a 


218 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

very natural desire on your part, — perfectly 
natural,” was the facetious remark of Mr. 
Towle, when Martha had stammered out her 
proposition. 44 But you see, from my point 
of view it doesn’t seem so attractive.” 

44 Indeed,” cried poor Martha, 44 that is n’t 
what I said at all. I said I would bring you 
berries all summer, and I wanted you, as a 
great favor, to pay me beforehand.” 

44 In advance, so to speak. Would they be 
as clean picked as these, Miss Morey ? ” asked 
Mr. Towle, sarcastically, with a wave of his 
hand toward the basket. 44 No, no,” said he, 
changing his tone as he saw a customer ad- 
vancing. 44 1 ’ll pay you for your berries 
when you bring them.” 

Martha turned away. Blinded with tears, 
she ran against a stout woman who was 
coming in. 

44 Well, well, little girl, what ’s the trouble ? 
Couldn’t sell your berries ?” questioned she, 
in a kind tone. 44 Well, just run up to Mrs. 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 219 

Morey’s, on the hill, you know, and I guess 
she will buy them ; for she asked me if I 
saw any one with berries to send them to 
her.” 

With renewed hope and courage, Martha 
wiped her eyes and started for the hill. Per- 
haps these rich Moreys would hold out a 
helping hand, for she had heard that they 
did many acts of kindness in the village; 
and then — and Martha’s cheeks flushed — 
there was the relationship, too, in her 
favor. 

She soon came to the broad gate of the 
rich Moreys’ house, which stood with its 
long windows and broad piazzas, a very 
stronghold of ease and plenty. On the front 
piazza sat Isabel Morey and three young 
friends, who, Martha saw at a glance, were 
not Cloverbank girls. 

Poor Martha ! She was too ignorant of 
the ways of the world to go to the back of 
the house with her wares ; instead of doing 


220 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

so, she walked slowly up to Isabel, and asked 
if they would like to buy huckleberries. 

“ Huckleberries ! ” cried one of the girls, 
coming toward her. “ Isabel, your good 
mother said if she could get any, I would n’t 
have to go back to the South without having 
tasted a huckleberry pie. ” And she looked 
into Martha’s basket, saying, “ And so these 
little green things are the much talked-of 
huckleberry ? ” 

Isabel blushed and laughed. “ They are 
not very good specimens, Ruby,” and turning 
to Martha, said coldly : “ None to-day, 

thank you.” 

Down to zero sank Martha’s heart, her 
courage had almost gone ; yet she could not 
go without another effort for Rab. 

“They are not very good, I know,” she 
said, eagerly ; “ I picked them by moonlight, 
because ” (with a sob) “ I wanted the money 
so. Unless I have it, my dog will be shot 
just for the money to pay the tax. I thought, 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 221 

perhaps, because I am a relation, you would 
let me have it.” 

“ A relation ! ” cried Isabel ; “ pooh ! 

That ’s a story. We don’t want any berries, 
I tell you, so you had better go on to your 
next relations.” 

Little Martha went home desperate. She 
prepared the dinner, but she ate none of it 
herself. She took Rab, who was wild with 
joy at her return after so unusual a separa- 
tion, out of the house, away from her 
father and Bill Swift, and went up on the 
hill. 

It was the same spot where they had 
frolicked together but a few days before, and 
Martha remembered how the solemn beauty 
of the sunset had, at last, hushed their wild 
gambols. She thought then, as she stood 
watching the tender glow of the wonderful 
sky, that life, even to a poor, little barefoot 
girl like herself, was sweet and good. And 
now — oh, the difference ! It was Rab’s last 


222 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

afternoon, — the last one. He was her only, 
best friend ; and he was going to be shot, — 
shot for no fault of his, and by those he 
loved and trusted. 

“ Oh, Rab ! Rab ! ” cried the poor little 
girl, “ how can they do it, when you trust 
them so? If you only knew, you would run 
away and find a home with somebody else ; 
but you never could trust anybody, never 
any more. Rab, dear old dog, can’t you 
understand ? You have stuck as close to us 
always as if we were rich folks, and loved us, 
and tried to keep harm away; and now, 
just for two dollars, you are going to be 
shot ! ” 

And Rab, who had never once taken his 
solemn eyes from hers, licked her hand and 
moved still closer by way of answer. 

The afternoon shadows grew longer and 
longer. Rab slept with his head on Martha’s 
lap, and Martha, poor child, wept. Once, 
she woke him up with a great hug, crying : 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 223 

“ How can I do without you ? How can I 
bear the long evenings, old fellow, all alone 
again ? ” 

The sun sank lower and lower, and dropped 
at last softly below the horizon. Then the 
child, with a frantic kiss on Rab’s head, sprang 
to her feet and flew down the hill, past the 
orchard, past the great empty barns, and in 
at the old kitchen door, knowing well that it 
hit Rab’s nose as she shut it, and that he 
stood waiting patiently for it to be opened 
again. She heard Bill Swift’s whistle, and 
knew that Rab trotted off obedient to the 
call. She could see how he jumped and 
wagged his tail in answer to Bill’s voice, — 
Bill, who had just stood and grinned, when 
he had been ordered to shoot him. Oh ! 
that was Bill now, in the hall, for his gun. 
And now, now he was calling Rab down 
behind the stable to be shot, — to be shot! 
“ Oh, how can he do it ! ” cried Martha, 
muffling her shawl around her ears. But 


224 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

she could not shut out the sound she 
dreaded. 

For, at that moment, a loud bang and a 
girl’s shrill cry filled the air ; then there was 
stillness, and Martha tried to realize that 
brave, loving Rab was dead. 

Isabel Morey, notwithstanding her treat- 
ment of Martha, was by no means a hard- 
hearted girl. She had, indeed, a very tender 
heart, and it was filled with remorse, although 
Isabel tried her best not to think any more 
about the girl who was trying to get money 
to save her dog. You see, she was proud; 
and what proud girl would wish to have 
Martha Morey claim her for a relation ? 
But, somehow, the troubled blue eyes and 
quivering lip haunted Isabel all day ; and 
that afternoon which Martha and Rab spent 
on the hill, and on which Isabel gave her 
lawn party, was the most uncomfortable one 
she could remember. 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 


225 


The girl had been fed on praise and pleas- 
ure all her life, and that is a diet that will 
agree with nobody’s disposition. It was only 
Isabel’s high standard of living that pre- 
vented her from being just as well pleased 
with herself as the rest of the household was 
with her. She knew those whose lives were 
lovely, and her own seemed very poor and 
ugly, just now, in comparison. So, when 
fond good-night kisses were pressed on her 
cheek, she burst out : — 

“ Don’t kiss me, mother! I’m a proud, 
bad-hearted girl, who never thinks of any- 
body but herself ; and I don’t deserve all the 
love and the kisses I get. I ’m an unfeeling 
savage, mother, and I ’m sure I have broken 
a girl’s heart.” 

“ Broken a girl’s heart ! ” echoed Mrs. 
Morey. “ Dear, dear, and who is the 
damsel ? ” 

“It ’s a poor girl that came to sell berries,” 
explained Isabel. “ She wanted the money 

15 


226 TIIE RIVER-END MOREYS* RAB. 

to save her dog, that was going to be shot to 
avoid the dog-tax. And I would not give 
her any, because she said she was a relation. 
Yes, that was the real reason. Her name 
happens to be Morey/ * 

“ Well, then, I presume she is a relation. 
All the Moreys in this part of the country 
are of the same stock. Which family is it, 
Bell ? ” 

“ The river-end Moreys, mother.” 

“ A daughter of old Sam, then. Well, 
dear, any child of his has a sad life. Help 
her, if you have a chance.” 

“ To-morrow, I will go and see Martha, 
and give her the money,” said Isabel, who 
had real tears in her eyes ; and after calling 
herself more bad names, she was led off to 
bed, where, it is to be hoped, she slept more 
comfortably than poor Martha, who tossed 
on her little cot and moaned for Bab till 
morning. 

One of the advantages of a story is, that 






She made a sad Picture of Desolation. 




THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 227 

we can skip unhappy days which, in real 
life, we have to go through as best we 
may, finding out, let us hope, that pain 
at least teaches us tenderness and sym- 
pathy for others. So we need not follow 
Martha through that lonesome, wretched 
day. 

It was just twenty-four hours since she 
had parted from Rab ; and Martha sat before 
the dying coals in the fire-place, with her 
head resting on the old, rush-bottom chair. 
For the first time in her brave, young life she 
had owned to herself her father’s faults, and 
the privations and loneliness they brought 
upon her. She made a sad picture of deso- 
lation, and Isabel Morey standing in the 
doorway felt grateful for her own happy 
life, as she realized what Martha’s must 
be. 

“ Martha,” she cried, “ I ’ve come to bring 
you the money.” 

Martha raised herself, and looked with a 


228 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

shiver at Kab’s empty place. “ It ’s too late,” 
said she. 

“ Oh,” cried Isabel, impulsivety, “ why did 
you let them kill him so soon ? ” 

“ Ask Bill,” said Martha, with a weary 
sigh. 

But Bill, who had just come in from the 
stable, grinned in his usual simple way, and 
went out again. And Martha dropped her 
head back in its place on the chair. 

Something in the little figure appealed to 
every good impulse of Isabel’s heart. 

“ Martha,” she cried, “ we are relations, as 
you said. I did not know it before last night, 
but now I am glad of it ; and I believe you 
will forgive me, and we shall be friends.’’ 

“ Oh,” said Martha, “ even the girls here 
at river end despise me, and you — ” But 
the words were smothered on Isabel’s 
shoulder; for the two little descendants of 
old John Morey were locked in each other’s 


arms. 


THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 229 

And then the strangest thing happened. 
In the door stood two Scotch collies : one be- 
longed to the Moreys on the hill, and the 
other was — 

“ Rab ! ” screamed Martha. 

“ Yaas, it 's Rab,” said Bill Swift's voice. 
“ If this 'ere young lady wants to pay the 
dog-tax, here 's a chance.” 

“ And you did n’t shoot him, dear, dear 
Bill ? ” cried Martha. 

“ S’pose I 'd shoot Rab ? Pooh ! I 'm not 
so silly as some folks think me,” answered 
Bill. “No, no; I jest shot at a crow, 
and I tied Rab up in my old shed at 
home.” 

From this time, the two Morey girls and 
the two Scotch collies became the four best 
friends in Cloverbank. Martha overcame 
her shyness, and paid many a delightful 
visit to the big house on the hill, where, in 
spite of her faded frocks, they could no more 
despise her than a moonbeam or a violet — 


230 THE RIVER-END MOREYS’ RAB. 

sweet, gentle little Martha. And the rich 
Moreys’ love for her became the channel 
through which flowed many of the good and 
inspiring things of this life, which made her 
own full and happy. 


THE END. 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications . 


Dorothy and Anton. 

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One handsome small quarto volume, bound in cloth. Price, $1.25. 


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